


Variations

by Laure001



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M, Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-06-09 00:39:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6882349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laure001/pseuds/Laure001
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Variations" is a collection of independent stories. You can read those stories in any order, or skip the ones you don't like.</p><p>
  <b>Complete. </b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Love in the Time of Zombies

**Author's Note:**

> The first story, "Love in the Time of Zombies", was already posted as a standalone, so you may already have read it. 
> 
> New Story: But Beautiful Though. (Chapter 4).

\- Three!

Quinn’s voice, calm and resolute, around the corner. Carrie was running toward the wooden door. Three more bullets left.

A detonation.

\- Two!

Another.

\- One!

\- Fuck! Hold the fort! she cried, and at last she got to the door – slammed it closed – well, tried, because of course at that precise moment a fucking zombie stumbled his way through – smelled her, began to growl, fuck, fuck, Carrie muttered, searching frantically for her ZKnife© – her hand was slightly trembling, she was so tired – and SCHLAK - between the eyes – another detonation – Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

\- Quinn! Get out of there!

Carrie pulled the zombie out of the way (he was wearing a grey jacket and a tie, she remembered it after because it was this zombie who messed up the plan, or maybe it was her incompetence) – and NOW she slammed the door shut, except not, because three new monsters were blocking it now – because of the grey jacket zombie, because she didn’t get rid of it quickly enough – one down (SCHLAK) – the two others were on her, but Carrie ignored the threat and tried to shut the damn door anyway because if she didn’t succeed now, then she would never – too late, too fucking late, another creature was already between the – forget the door, time to NOT die, the first zombie was grabbing her arm, SCHLAK! (but she missed the right spot), the second one was trying to – Carrie kicked him away, kicked the first one too, two steps back, ZKnife© ready, got the two of them easy, the door get the door except – five more now – FUCK! The door was lost, she stepped back again, looked at it with despair, zombies swarming, tears in her eyes, she had fucked it up, she began to run - back in this fucking tunnel where they’ve been forever and ever where everything was grey and the floor was slippery with blood and they had seen that ONE fucking exit, this little window of light above but now she had…

\- Quinn! (She yelled.) I lost the door! I lost the door! We have to climb right now! We…

He was running too, toward her, they met not far from the wall, near the spot where they thought they could climb, to try to reach the broken ladder eighty feet up, a ladder they hoped would not break and would get them to that opening three hundred feet up, of course a fall would be fatal, Quinn had his gun in hand (but no more bullets) – he was staring at the door – the open door, with the flow of zombies coming through – Carrie took his arm, tried to drag him toward the wall.

– We have to climb now!

\- No.

… he said, still with this fucking calm, six days stuck in this fucking underground labyrinth, no sun, no sky, no wind, food getting scarce, it was just growling and death, but Quinn was still efficient, competent (while she was going bonkers).

\- No, he repeated, and he took her hand and began to walk the other way, the way he came from, the way they came from initially, please no –

\- No, Quinn we have to try…

\- It’s over. They’ll grab us. We’ll never make it.

\- No we have to…

\- Forget it. They’ll get us while we climb.

… and he began to walk fast, his hand was an iron grip, he was right, the zombies were already near the wall – if she had only got to that door in time, now the creatures were – I don’t know, a hundred, walking towards them with those eyes and those teeth and she yelled (FUCK FUCK FUCK!!) Quinn began to jog and she jogged alongside him – around the corner, and for God’s sake, they were back – in the main tunnel, this dreadful place (when they found a place to sleep she was having fucking nightmares about phantom trains on those tracks). The last three zombies Quinn killed (his last three bullets) were lying on the ground, but there were others, of course, maybe ten or twenty, scattered, not too responsive – of course they got more responsive when Quinn and Carrie began to run towards them (my fault, my fault, she kept thinking) but what Quinn needed right now was her to be clear headed, so she tried to focus.

\- Ok. Listen to me, Carrie, he said. We keep running, we don’t stop. (The creatures were shambling closer.) We push them away, we don’t kill them. Push and run. Ok?

And he demonstrated the concept with a blond, female, intense looking zombie, with still traces of make up on, and then push and run was what they did for the next thirty minutes, covering already familiar ground. It was more push and jog, really. “Don’t go too fast! You’ll tire early”, he ordered, and she followed his instructions to the letter – when you’re six months in in a zombie outbreak and six days in in a hellish, ghoulish, horrible zombie filled subterraneous labyrinth, you don’t play “independent thinker” Carrie, you shut up and you obey the guy who’s keeping you alive. They had to stop once – Quinn’s way was barred by a zombies crew of ten or twelve, he got out his military knife (not a ZKnife©, something much bigger) and began to hack – Carrie too, attacking them from behind, she got three (and felt very proud of herself) he got nine. By the way, you remember the Zombies rules, right?

The Zombie rules are:

\- Zombies are dead people who have risen and want to eat you alive,

\- If you’re bitten, you get Zombie Fever and you die and then you turn into a Zombie and you want to eat other people alive,

\- To kill a Zombie, you have to hit him in the brain (or he will, you know, eat you alive).

… And they began to run again, a little faster because the horde which was forming behind them had got closer, and soon to they were back to the abandoned station with the connection with the subway – back in hell. They stopped.

The station was overflowed.

Carrie had trouble breathing, she leaned upon the wall, deep breaths, deep breaths, the horde was maybe three minutes behind, and before them the station, filled with hundreds of roaming zombies. Quinn was taking the situation in (what situation, she thought, we’re fucked, but she shut up, hysterics wouldn’t help.)

\- Ok, he said. We go through.

That was crazy. Carrie tried to keep her calm – well, she tried to pretend.

\- Quinn, I don’t think we can…

(The horde, getting nearer).

\- It’s the best choice.

\- What about there? she countered.

To the left. Maybe fifty zombies between them and the stairs, but fifty is better than – you know – a million?

(The horde. Nearer.)

\- No. We don’t know what we will find upstairs. If we’re stuck, we’re dead. In the northern tunnel – we know our way, we know what’s waiting for us. We just go straight ahead and try to get the cache.

The cache was where they had left the guns, the munitions and the food, three days ago. The idea was to go on a short reconnaissance and then come back. They were never able to.

\- Alright, he said. Ready? Push and run. We do not kill, killing is stopping, we stop, we die. Ok? We go through, all the way – till we get to the tunnel.

\- Quinn…

\- Go.

They went. It was – nightmarish – everything had been nightmarish, from the start – but this – faces and faces and faces, some still not decomposed; they could have been human, shit they werehuman, passengers, stuck there during the outbreak, who had eaten each other alive (well, the zombies had eaten some of the passengers and they had turned and then they had eaten the others alive) and all those faces hating them wanting to kill them wanting to eat to annihilate hungry hateful hands and teeth and Quinn never left her side (though she was slower than him) it got worse and worse the crowd was pressing closer she was getting slower and they made it, they were on the other side – but Carrie was lost in the shuffle, losing her mind she had lost Quinn too and at the last moment he grabbed her arm.

\- Forget it! We won’t make it there!

He dragged her left – it was not the right way – but the pressure was weakening, and suddenly they were running on relatively open ground – only a few dozen creatures. Carrie looked around and she saw it, behind them on the right – the entrance of the northern tunnel, completely blocked, the way to the cache – they were in another tunnel, going west, the wrong way, they looked at each other, but another horde was already forming behind them…

\- Go!

Westward. And again – jog and push – and kill, this time. Because even if this tunnel was not overflowed, the density was enough that they needed to – run - push –SCHLAK – run - push – SCHLAK – for hours – exhaustion was not even an appropriate word for the state they were in, Carrie was feeling Quinn’s weakening besides her, and if he was weakening – they needed a place to rest, a place to hole up, but there was nothing, run, kill, push, westward – and then she saw it.

\- There!

Up there, in the brown brick wall, there was a sort of – air vent maybe? An opening? Just out of their reach, but also out of the zombies reach.

\- Here! Quinn! Climb!

He looked.

\- We cannot… both fit in…

\- Yeah! We can!

Carrie dragged him to the wall and she began to climb and Quinn helped her, pushing her up, then he had to let her go because of course the zombies had rounded up, and she heard him fight below (and SCHLAK and SCHLAK) and grunt (he was so tired) she found a sort of rusted metal handle (so humans were supposed to go in there) she grabbed it and pulled herself upwards; he was still fighting under her feet God if he was bitten now – if he was killed now – pulling harder, she was in, in this tiny passageway, going deep in the wall with only darkness at the end.

\- Quinn! Grab my hands!

He couldn’t, not at first, he had to kill his assailants but of course the noise and the fight was attracting more; finally he turned and jumped and she caught him and some zombies got grabby but he kicked and climbed; at last he was in, falling on her, Carrie lied down (no other choice) face up and crawled backwards to give him space but her head soon hit the fucking end of that fucking brick tube. She couldn’t go farther, he had to crawl on her, it was pitch black, he was lying on her trying to get his feet out of the opening, she whispered “you’re too fat”, he stifled a dry laugh, and after that they stayed immobile for a while.

It took her five minutes to catch her breath. To realize that they were safe. Alive. “Are you hurt?” she asked, “No” he answered shortly, near her cheek, he was so exhausted, she thought she had never saw him so drained, she heard him breathe, in and out, trying to calm down, she could feel his heart beating pretty fast and minutes passed again, yes, they were safe, the horde that had been following them would dissipate slowly with them out of view (that’s why it was so important for them to hide their feet), the adrenaline was winding down – but without the running and the struggle of surviving, Carrie was left with nothing but misery.

She felt sick (death, death all around). They were in a tomb, maybe they were already dead, and this was a zombie nightmare, she and Quinn stumbling together in the halls and this was their common dream, where their bodies were alive and touching, everywhere, chest against chest, arms thighs hearts beating together, his breath on her neck and she suddenly tightened her involuntary embrace on him, grateful for his strength, for the fact that he was here, near her.

“Quinn”, she whispered, her voice broken, to reassure herself that he was real, then she added “Don’t die”, it didn’t make any sense but she did not care, he wasn’t moving, he wasn’t reacting, at least in appearance, but his heart was beating fast again, and his chin grated on her neck (a six days stubble), she felt the weight of his legs and his left hand somewhere in the vicinity of her belly, he tried to move, to do what she didn’t know (maybe get away) but he couldn’t, they were stuck in this claustrophobic space, and his movement made it worse because suddenly parts of his body were sliding (more like grinding) on her, his side moving up her hip and his chest pushing on her breasts and suddenly she needed more (of him), (of life), so she kissed – what she could, what was there, his neck, then she couldn’t stop, like his skin was a drug, it was desperate need, she got part of his jaw and then lower, near the collarbone, he tried to rearrange again, to get off her or to get nearer she had no idea, anyway it didn’t amount to much except more grinding really. “Carrie”, he murmured, was it a warning or a – she didn’t know, but he was becoming hard on her thighs and she tried to move her head, trying to get to his lips. He was trying too, except they couldn’t, but the sort of twist they had attempted had messed up with her shirt (pulling it up) so now part of her stomach and her bra was exposed, her naked skin rubbing on his shirt and his jeans and his belt – again, didn’t help, especially when he succeeded to move his left hand upward – and it landed on her ribcage, then on her breasts - he buried his face in her hair, “Carrie don’t” – “Please”, she whispered, and he had a sort of frantic movement and suddenly the angle was better and he did catch her lips – kind of – the side of her lips, maybe, and he tried and she tried and the kiss was – almost there – they kind of missed each other so he moved again, she was fighting desperately to get her hands down, to get to his belt, and there was no “Carrie don’t” anymore, believe me, his left hand had left her breasts, trying to get to her pants, fumbling with the buttons of her jeans, she kind of jerked under his touch and the angle changed again and suddenly – access, so they were kissing, short feverish clumsy kisses while their hands were still rummaging downstairs and suddenly access there too – and he entered her, without warning, without a word, she arched, clutching his back – and then they stopped moving, totally.

His forehead was touching her – she had shut her eyes, not that it changed anything in the dark – and it was – she never had been this close to anyone ever, she thought – not mentally close, in fact she had no idea what he was thinking or feeling, he was a stranger in the dark, his face invisible – but – physically close. Every part of their bodies touching, pressing on each other – legs and bodies and flesh everywhere and he in her, the final touch. She moved her hands as she could to hold him even tighter; they were still not moving (well not in the hips area anyway), he began to kiss her again, as he could (no range), cheeks and lips and face, “Look at me”, he whispered, and Carrie had a strangled laugh, because – how? – but she still opened her eyes, and they looked at each other or more exactly they just stared in the dark; he began to move; she tried to move her hips too, tried to follow his rhythm but honestly, there was no space for movement, the stone was pressing on them everywhere – he had a frustrated groan – she arched again trying to – and then they had a little more room, and his left hand was under her bra, fondling her nipples, caressing her skin and they could stir (just a little) (he succeeded to move less than an inch – horizontally) (in and out) (so frustrating but at the same time so), the closeness, their breaths mingling, they had stopped kissing and their faces were touching, and when she came her nails dug in his hair and honestly, next thing she remembered, it was morning.

She was alone, daylight filtering through the unattainable overtures at the top of this gargantuan tunnel, an alternate world for giants, where humans who dared enter were sentenced to oblivion. But now she was able to see where she was – their hole was a conduct made of brick, and at the end, the stones were new (or at least newer) – it had been walled, recently. Carrie touched the stones to see if they would give way – she struck them – but, surprise surprise, stones and cement do not yield easily to the naked hand.

\- Carrie! (Quinn’s voice, somewhere below.) Coast clear! Let’s go!

She checked her military bag – (Zknife©, ZBiteSaver©, medical kit, her totally useless phone who had now been out of battery for days). They still had some water - she was hungry though – but not too much, they had eaten yesterday morning. OK. Time to rock and roll.

She climbed down; no zombies around, Quinn was surveying the zone, he seemed exactly the same, like nothing had happened – and honestly she was not in the mood to get sentimental either (Let’s just get the fuck out of there, she thought, just out, OUT, please.) (She’d consider the situation in the light of day, in the real light, outside).

Quinn turned to her.

\- I’m thinking about our options.

\- Which are?

\- We could double back and try to get back to the northern tunnel. To the cache. Or, he continued, we could go on west, and hope this tunnel ends one day – preferably before we starve…

\- It should end soon, Carrie answered.

\- Yeah?

\- Yes.

She tried to remember the map of the city, how the regional trains intersected with the subway – she didn’t memorized it or anything, but she did look more than once, and she had an excellent visual memory. Yeah, they should reach the surface soon, and also…

\- This doesn’t go full west, she explained. More like northwest, and it shouldn’t stray too far from the northbound mainline at first, which means… If we’re lucky, there might be maintenance tunnels connecting both.

\- Ok. (Quinn nodded.) Let’s go west.

Instead of run and push, it was walk and not a lot of pushing. Zombies were scarce; Carrie kept an eye for maintenance tunnels – there were none, but the walled air vents appeared regularly, every hour or so, and she could have sworn that they were getting a little bigger. Hours passed, they were still walking without much happening, which was good but also a little dangerous, because Carrie’s thoughts began to wander – about what happened the previous night (so much for waiting for the light of day to get sentimental). Quinn still hadn’t mentioned any of it, he was acting as if those moments didn’t even existed – but then, so did she. They were still walking, she cast a few discreet looks at him, wondering if behind this stern exterior his mind was wandering too, and she had her answer when they finally stopped – there was a crossing and another tunnel (going eastward), huge brick pillars, maybe the remnants of an abandoned station, the place was strangely beautiful, with the daylight filtering from far above, Carrie leaned against one of those colossal yellowish brick columns, and Quinn didn’t talk, didn’t comment, he just looked around, turned, and began to kiss her.

Bricks and light and the tunnels and the walking dead moving around, and both of them kissing in the midst of the labyrinth – desperately, passionately – it was madness – zombies could show any time – but Carrie was already lifting his shirt and he was already zipping down her pants, each second counted, he had his hand in her panties (still kissing) and a finger inside her and she moaned and he pushed her against the bricks and she had her hands on his chest then in his pants and he was rubbing her everywhere and she was too and they were both breathless and of course that’s the time zombies showed – six fucking of them, attacking, and before Carrie could even figure what was happening Quinn had already his knife, muttering “fuck fuck fuck” (SHLACK, one zombie down, SHLACK, two zombies down) but three of them were on Carrie who had her fucking pants down (can you imagine how ridiculous it would be, people finding zombie Carrie Mathison roaming the halls with her jeans down) so she slid down on the ground “fuck fuck fuck” to kick them away, which gave her time to find her knife, here it was, she killed the first one as he kind of leaped on her (Zombies don’t leap? Yeah, well, you weren’t there) but she missed the second, the knife got stuck in the monster’s vertebrae “fuck fuck fuck”, Quinn had killed the third one, Carrie pushed her monster away, zipped her pants back (for fuck sake!), leaped (her turn!) grappled the thing and got her knife back and then she killed him the right way, ok, Quinn had taken care of the rest - “I suck at this”, she muttered, but other creatures from the eastern tunnel were already on their way so Quinn took Carrie’s hand and they began to run, west, the tunnel was now sloping down, getting darker and darker, and soon it was pitch black – for God’s sake.

Pitch black, in a tunnel, with zombies. Come the fuck on.

\- Don’t let go of my hand, he whispered.

Believe me, she had no intention to.

They were walking slowly (“Let’s follow the wall”, she breathed), so they did, still holding hands, she was touching the stone with her left fingers; they were advancing slowly, carefully, listening – their sense of hearing on overdrive - everything seemed so real, so damn present, the air in-between them, the smells, the noise of little animals, pebbles and bones were rolling and cracking under their feet, they kept marching, no light anywhere, maybe it will be like that till the end, Carrie thought, absolute blackness and the zombies will come and we will just hear them and it will be the end, she was on the verge of losing it, the only thing anchoring her was his hand, the only thing that stopped her from running away screaming and then she heard IT standing up, just behind Quinn, who didn’t even have to turn around, the creature was already opening her mouth to bite Quinn’s neck Carrie grabbed it and pushed it down and began to stomp on its head – with her shoes (Doc Martens, official shoe makers of the zombie apocalypse) - tramping and screaming till the thing’s brain exploded, and then she kept stomping – Quinn grabbed her from behind – holding her by the waist, she stopped, and he whispered – “Listen… We have to listen… If there was one there may be others…” so she stopped – they kept perfectly silent, he still holding her, then a minute passed and he murmured “Thank you”, she was crying silently, he began to kiss her again – on the back of her neck, but – let’s not make the same mistake twice.

So, marching on. Still westward. Hours passed before the ground began to rise again, and at last the warm but meagre light of the setting sun appeared above the inaccessible openings – when they spotted another air vent the night was already beginning to fall, everything was turning grey, they climbed, and there was no hesitation or pause this time they had sex right away, as soon as he crawled on her they began to kiss and their hands were instantly busy – maybe the conduct was indeed a little larger, or maybe their desperation was stronger, because she had him undressed (where it counted) right away, she put her hand in his pants and grabbed him, he has his mouth all over her nipples – sadly he couldn’t get lower without getting halfway out of that stupid vent (and that would have been extremely dangerous) (but maybe worth it), he began to bite her a little, a strange sexual symbolic choice in a zombie-filled environment, so she squeezed him harder (down there) her other hand scratching his back – she understood the game – they were roleplaying, in a way, transforming death into – he climbed up again, to kiss her, so she got revenge and it was her turn to bite him (lips, jaw, neck), he muttered something (not nice, probably, but she didn’t catch it), her hand left him and went to grab the back of his neck again to make him kiss her (that would teach him) – and he seized the opportunity and penetrated her at once, like the previous night, but unlike the previous night they didn’t stay perfectly still, gazing romantically in the darkness, they were at it right away – “at it” was, again, severely limited by the conditions they were in, she was trying to get her knees up (but couldn’t do much), and this was – incredible – the squeezing and the limited space and the forced closeness – his thrusts were limited too, so he finally added his hand down there to rub her (pressure on them everywhere) and this time he came first, his shivering and moans drove her crazy because it was the first time she ever saw (heard) him lose control, she followed almost instantly and honestly, next thing she remembered, it was morning.

Light was filtering from the faraway ceiling.

She was alone. She instantly went to check the bottom of the vent, but it also had been walled, and like the previous ones, the stones had no intention of yielding.

\- Hey, Quinn said, when she joined him downstairs.

It felt a little like they were living in a duplex. The upper level was a small mezzanine where they had sex, the lower level a huge living room with zombies and no seats.

\- There is a maintenance tunnel a little farther, and it’s going right, he explained.

She frowned.

\- Really?

\- Ten minutes from here. I went to check when you were still sleeping. I think I should try to go for it – see if it connects with the northern tunnel – if it does I’ll be back in a few hours, with the munitions and the food.

\- Not alone.

\- Carrie, you’ll just slow me down.

It was true, but it still hurt – not that she’s so bad as killing zombies, but the idea that she was endangering him – she knew, but to hear it was –

\- I am sorry, she said, in a low voice.

\- For what?

\- It’s my fault if we didn’t make it to the ladder. Because I couldn’t hold the door.

He shrugged.

\- There’s a universe where you did hold that door. We made it to the ladder, it fell down and we both died. We were desperate, but honestly – with a little perspective – I think climbing all that way up was a very, very bad idea.

Carrie couldn’t believe how relieved she felt. She smiled at him – a huge beaming smile – and for a moment he just stared at her, transfixed, and she wondered again what he was thinking, about… you know. He was a locked door, she thought, she needed the key to see what was behind, maybe she had it (well, she had a key) yesterday night when he lost control, she had a glimpse of what was hidden, but not much – and she needed to see more.

But now that was not the time to go Quinn’s soul searching. They walked to another air vent, a little larger, he helped her back up, grabbed his bag, and left.

Assuring that he would be back in three to six hours.

Three to six hours can feel like an eternity. When you have no way to measure time, when thousands of killer creatures hover behind you, where the only other human being on earth (not true, but it was feeling that way) had vanished, swearing that he was coming back… but would he?

Carrie tried to sleep, and couldn’t – thoughts were competing in her head, there was a streak about Frannie, who was safe with Maggie in the US where the outbreaks had mostly been contained (they were a week ago, anyway), there was a streak about the world (A few days ago, it was just a zombie outbreak, but what about now? Maybe now it was a full blown zombie apocalypse) (Maybe the civilization has ended while they were struggling down here). And there were two streaks of thought about Quinn, the first was, of course (Will he come back, what if he doesn’t come back, what if after six hours she goes to look for him and he’s turned in one of them?), the second one was – you could sum it up by (What?) (What the hell?) (What had just happened between them?) (Was it just a zombie-related one time thing) (Well, two/three times thing) (Or what?).  
Carrie laid there, staring at the brick ceiling (imagining Quinn on top of her, the weight of him in the darkness). After Islamabad, he kissed her and left – but there was more unsaid, much more. And two years later he saved her life after finding her name on a kill list. He was busy trying to convince her to go into hiding when the zombie outbreak happened – Allison Carr was one of the first victim, eaten alive in the streets of Berlin, and when the CIA went through Allison’s things they discovered she was a mole (unrelated to the Zombie thing). Carrie was out of danger – but then Saul asked her to go meet a contact from her Abu-Nazir/Amaretto days, someone who might have something to do with the undead epidemic.

Quinn was sent to protect her. Or maybe Quinn had strong armed Saul into sending him too – Carrie didn’t pay attention to details at the time – but now she wondered - it didn’t seem like a detail anymore, it seemed like – one of those keys she was looking for – somewhere there was a set of keys, about Quinn, and she wanted to try them, one by one – anyway, Saul had sent them both to the meet, the contact never showed up and a bit of bad luck and a subway floor caving later they were stuck in this lethal Alice through the fucking looking glass underworld.

Three to six hours. Three hours were long gone, right? Or maybe four. Or five. Or maybe only two? It was hard to figure with only grey daylight sipping through – grey February light, grey February days. Somewhere. The outer world seemed difficult to imagine. Maybe it never existed.

Maybe it was only her and Quinn and death (and sex), since the beginning of time.

Carrie still couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t stop thinking of Quinn. Which – of course she was thinking of him – the guy was trying to find munitions and food for them of course she should think about him but it was not – exactly – unconscious elements were stirring in her, expectations, hopes, fears redeploying, new mental landscapes being created. She couldn’t describe the process, she just knew that each hour which passed and he didn’t come back was a step being taken (she wanted to be out, with him, she wanted to see him in the light of day, to be with him in the light of day, and then)…

The light of day was declining.

Carrie sat up, panicked (more exactly, she tried to sit up but couldn’t because she was in a fucking coffin). Yes, the greys were getting greyer.  
Quinn had left in the morning. Let’s say she had woken up two hour after dawn – and now it was dusk – sure February days were short, but still, it meant more than six hours had gone by, and he was not back – oh my God he was not back.

Panic settled instantly. And with panic, the horrible uncertainty of her next actions, because if she knew what to do to help him then she would just fucking do it, but what was the right decision? Wait, or go find him? Because if she didn’t go and Quinn needed her help… But if she did go and he was hurrying back and she got him in trouble and then he got killed… She could climb down and take a few steps in the maintenance tunnel and call him – but the fact was, she was not sure she could climb back without him and if zombies arrived and she got eaten and he found her dead on the floor and ok, stop, she had to decide, she’d wait two more hours, she thought, till the night had really set in, and if he was not back then NO you know what FUCK IT she was going NOW, she checked the contents of her bag frenetically (always checking the bag before taking any action was official procedure since the outbreak), she got ready to jump and of course that’s when Quinn came back, running in long elegant strides, a bag on his shoulder, Carrie helped him climb and two heartbeats later he was in, he sat on the edge of the vent so she could crouch near him, he was perfectly calm and composed, not even out of breath.

\- Ok, so, I couldn’t take everything, he explained, the northern tunnel’s swarming with them – going west was the right decision, believe me. But I got ammunition – and here, have a protein bar… They are a little dry, but…

She was staring at him – she couldn’t move, she couldn’t think.

\- Carrie, you should eat. Ok, so – this is your gun now. Loaded and ready to go – but use it sparingly – between the two of us, I’d say we have a hundred bullets left. Not bad, but if we meet a horde things could degenerate fast… Carrie, eat.

She didn’t. Instead, she took him in her arms, wordlessly, her heart pounding. Quinn didn’t know how to react at first - then he hugged her back, they didn’t move for a while, till he said:

\- Fucking eat, Carrie.

She laughed, dried out her tears. He was watching her as one would have watched an alien, a real big green one, with pointed ears.

\- Are you having a mental breakdown?

She laughed again.

\- Maybe. I was very near one, anyway. When I was waiting for you. And you weren’t coming back.

\- I told you six hours.

\- It was more.

He looked at the ceiling, saw the night.

\- Maybe. Did you worry?

\- What do you think?

\- Sorry. Eat.

\- Don’t I even get a kiss?

He froze – absolutely, completely froze – staring again at her like she was a creature from outer space. Like the real Carrie had been kidnapped and replaced. He opened his mouth to speak – then changed his mind, put a hand on her neck, drew her close and kissed her, but thank God she had other instances to judge his talent from, because that was the colder, more fucking impersonal kiss ever received

\- Eat, Carrie.

She rolled her eyes – took her protein bar, and ate.

He was watching the tunnel. A feeble light was still filtering – maybe it was a beautiful night outside, with a full moon and stars.

\- You know, there were passageways down there, he explained.

\- Where?

\- In the maintenance tunnel – going up – I suppose.

They looked at each other.

\- You want to check them out now? she asked.

He clearly hesitated.

\- I know it’s night, he finally said, and the light is bad, but – the zombies, in the northern tunnel, they’re… agitated. Like with - tidal waves. If any of them followed me… it could start something. They could come this way.

\- So we’ve got no time to lose, Carrie concluded.

He hesitated again, before saying:

\- Let’s go.

And five minutes later, Carrie got bitten.

She was alone checking one of the passageways – it was too dark, and she stumbled on a child corpse, a little girl, with blonde hair, so yes, she got distracted for a few seconds. She gawked at the corpse and she heard the zombie rise up behind her (it had been there all along, waiting), she began to turn around but before she could make sense of anything his teeth were in her arm ; she didn’t scream; she ripped the monster off and stabbed him, one strike, he fell and she was already opening her bag, hands trembling, taking the ZBiteSaver©, the round metal device bit right through her arm, ripping skin and flesh in a neat little sphere around the wound; taking off everything - blood spattered, pain unthinkable, still not screaming, taking the syringe and injecting the liquid (less that twenty-five seconds after the bite, they said, less than twenty-five seconds for it to have any chance of functioning at all), Carrie was losing blood and the shock and everything, she fell on her knees, trembling, she was going to die here, all alone; Quinn was checking the other maintenance tunnel; after a while he would look for her and find her – like this – she was seeing blinding lights (not the bite, a good old fashioned panic attack), she was still on her knees, breathe, breathe, long fucking breaths, five minutes passed, she sat down near the fallen zombie and the dead girl and finally was well enough to grab the other part of the medical kit, she disinfected the wound (for all the good it would do) and wrapped a bandage around it, then she stood up and walked back slowly to “their” tunnel.  
Quinn was already back, he was waiting for her there, cleaning his knife, and he saw her face before seeing the wound and turned pale as a sheet.

\- I’ve Zbited it, she said.

He was already unwrapping the bandage.

\- Looks fine, he said, but his face and his voice were betraying him. (His voice didn’t sound fine at all, nor his expression. Nothing fine, nowhere.) I think you got it all.

\- I don’t know, she stuttered (she was not crying, but she was terrified, she must have been even paler than he was, if possible), I don’t know, I couldn’t bite far because of the veins, I injected the antibiotics I think I made it before the twenty-five seconds mark but I…

\- Take another shot, he said, and he began to open his bag, feverishly, but she protested:

\- It’s won’t help it has to be taken in the first twenty-five seconds Quinn it won’t help. (But he was already searching his kit and she had to yell.) IT WON’T HELP A DOUBLE DOSE DOESN’T CHANGE ANYTHING QUINN KEEP YOUR FUCKING ANTIBIOTICS!

He stopped, looking at her, then he zipped his bag shut and he took her hand and began to walk briskly westwards, so yeah, they were both walking, without a word, God only knew what Quinn was thinking, maybe that if they found a way out if they found help she could be cured, there had been cases (like one on a thousand?) where they saved someone after the infection had settled in, it was not hopeless, scientists everywhere were working on different hypothesis, maybe they had made progress now (or, you know, civilization had fallen) but hours passed and the tunnel was not going anywhere and the moon and the stars had disappeared, it was getting dark and dangerous and Carrie was shaking like a leaf, she was cold, maybe it was the infection settling in or the HUGE dose of antibiotics or the shock or the fear but she stopped, smiled softly and said:

\- Do you mind if we go home and sleep for a while?

He just nodded – they walked to the next “mezzanine” – they climbed, yeah, the conduct was definitely bigger, they could even sit facing each other, and they did – she was not sleeping, she couldn’t, she was thinking about the infection spreading in her cells, she unwrapped her bandage and looked (Quinn was looking too). The wound was not pretty, why would it, a grown human being had teared her skin with his teeth, but it was nor turning blueish. The “zombie plague” made it turn blueish – it was not blueish.

Yet.

\- How long, do you think?

He must have known what she meant – how long before it turns blue or it doesn’t? (Life or non-life, kind of like a twisted pregnancy test).

\- A few hours. I don’t know.

\- I’m so cold. That’s a bad sign, right? Like I’m turning into one of them already.

He laughed (it was dry), then he gave her his leather jacket (leather jacket, also a wise fashion choice in days of zombies) and then he searched into the bag for the military survival blanket.

\- No. It’s a good sign. The first sign of the infection is a very high fever.

She knew that, of course she knew that; she was just dumb with terror and out of her wits. Ok so, big picture, she had to concentrate on her loved ones, think of the aftermath. It was a psychological trick they taught to fight the fear of impending death – concentrate on what you were leaving behind – her loved ones, shit, the list was not fucking long. Frannie. With Maggie. Who was a great, great mom, all her passive aggressiveness concentrated on Carrie, she never was like that with the girls. Her nieces – with their parents, and then there were Saul and Quinn (in no particular order) – the end. Saul was trying to find solutions to avoid the apocalypse; he was as safe as someone high up in the American government could be. And Quinn (how strange, to think of him as a loved one)… Quinn was right here, besides her.

\- Quinn, she said. You shouldn’t stay.

\- What?

\- You should go. Find another conduct to sleep in. And tomorrow you could come back and check that I haven’t… You could come back and check on me.

\- Yeah. That’s gonna happen.

\- Don’t be a fool. I could turn during the night and bite you.

\- For fuck sake.

\- Quinn, please don’t be difficult.

\- I’m being difficult?

She sighed.

\- You would not be abandoning me, you would just leave me in quarantine for a few hours and…

He had closed his eyes, the back of his head reposing upon the brick wall.

\- No.

\- Fuck, Carrie muttered.

Ok. So of course he was being a dumbass about it – she began to think about alternatives. She had to find a way to get away from him – she just had to, at least for the night, in the morning she would definitely know (or she would be growling and looking for fresh brains). She wasn’t suicidal, she didn’t want to slit her throat or offer herself as zombie snack, but she had to find a way to protect him. She would wait till he was asleep. Then she could go and hole up in one of the other air vents, or maybe somewhere in the maintenance tunnel, and…

\- What the fuck are you thinking about, Carrie?

She almost jumped – oh his eyes were open all right, and he was watching her with an icy look.

\- What?

\- Don’t bullshit me. You are not going out there alone.

\- I was not…

\- Don’t you dare fucking lie.

\- Fuck, she mumbled again.

Ok, so now she would never be able to sneak past him – she had to fucking convince him – fuck, fuck and fuck – why was he making this so hard?

\- You are not helping, she said, anger beginning to rise. It’s just fucking common sense, you idiot! To avoid contamination!

He didn’t answer, just looking at her with a cold intensity she had never seen before (she was not sure if it was rage or exasperation or what). She explained:

\- If I live, we’ll see each other in the morning, no harm no foul, and if I die…

And suddenly he had his knife in hand, it was so sudden that she actually gasped – he had reached into his bag so fast that she – “I’m turning I’m turning into one of them right now and he’s going to kill me” – she thought, totally frozen; he grabbed her left hand and cut her skin with a swift gesture, she cried, more from surprise than from pain – he did the same thing on his left hand, and then took hers back and mingled both their blood, rubbing their wounds one against another – she could only stare, what the hell was he - and then neurons finally connected or something; she ripped her hand away, horrified

\- What the FUCK are you doing? Blood is a contaminant!

\- This way you’re not going to run away, he explained, very calmly.

Then he took back her hand and did it AGAIN while she was struggling desperately – stop this stop this are you MAD stop this – when he finally let her go she was feeling sick – she tried to talk, many times, before at last being able to utter:

\- Are you crazy? This is crazy. Are you crazy?

\- Just logical, he said, but his voice was – strange. (There was a short pause, and then his tone was back to steady.) If we’re both in the same situation, then you have no reason to take off or do whatever stupid demented thing you were intending to do.

She couldn’t talk, again, feeling – God knew what. Anger and terrible crippling fear were part of it.

\- You just… you just contaminated yourself, she seethed.

\- Chances are, you’re not sick, and then I’m not either.

\- And what if I am? she yelled. What if I die in the morning?

\- Do you think I would want to live then? he yelled back, and she looked at him, stunned, and she saw it I his eyes – the exact moment where he realized what he had just said.

\- I mean… I didn’t mean…, he whispered. I don’t mean it... that way.

\- What do you mean? she asked, slowly.

There was a silence. Then he just shrugged. And Carrie’s mind went instantly on denial mode, there was a rational explanation, she could chalk it up on guilt or whatever (maybe he just meant that he was supposed to protect her and failed). So she clung to that idea for a while – it was simpler – but it was also – intensely disappointing – and she felt so damn sad – they had been together for years on end, on parallel courses, never really colliding - and now they were going to die, to dissolve in nothingness, without even -

Unless.

\- Well, I can think of two interpretations, she began. Of what you just said.

\- Oh my God, Carrie. Will you please let it go?

\- No. The first interpretation is that you take your responsibilities really seriously.

\- Carrie please can you fucking just-

\- The other one..., she began.

… and she had to stop, her chest was constricted, she was so damn terrified.

\- Carrie, shut up. Please. Please shut up. Please.

\- The other one, she repeated, ignoring him, is that you… love me. That you’re in love with me.

He shook his head – with a mix of despair and disbelief.

\- Really?

\- “Really” what?

\- Really, that’s your interpretation? You think you’re so damn clever?

\- Well, am I?

There was a new silence, longer this time. Then he chuckled – a pathetic little laugh.

\- Your interpretation is that I’ve been in love with you for years.

She hadn’t said that, but she didn’t comment, because his intonation was so strange. So bitter. He continued.

\- And that I would do such a crazy thing as… what I just did… because…

He stopped there, shook his head again, before rubbing his temples, like he had the most horrible headache.

\- Well, he finally said. Maybe.

Carrie didn’t reply, so that was the key, she thought in a strange, dispassionate way – but her body was not dispassionate, she was trembling all over – like a part of her knew how momentous that discussion was, but her mind was struggling to catch up. She let time pass – she needed to acquaint herself with this new reality; she needed to integrate the truth she had just torn out of him – and time did pass, a few interminable minutes; he wasn’t looking at her, he hadn’t been for a while now, he was just staring at the tunnel, and she realized – he couldn’t – he couldn’t look at her, he had just offered her his heart on a platter, and now he was just waiting, for rejection, for silence – and there was this strange, amoral moment where she felt – absolute power. This man, with his head turned, staring at the humid dirty stones on the opposite wall as if they were alive, she had him, she was holding him in her hand, she could crush him if she wanted, as a whim, just for fun – a few cruel words would do the trick, or you know, just staying silent would, but she didn’t get this option, because he turned to her, and she was right, he was not hiding anything anymore, they were just both a few hours from death anyway, he looked at her, with a small, sad smile.

\- So? he asked.

There a silence, she was just staring back – considering, scrutinizing, this man – this man she didn’t know, that she never saw before – without armor, without – anything.

\- So? he repeated. Do I have a chance with you? Ever?

\- Yes, she answered at once – without thinking, the emotion that submerged her was sudden, irresistible, all the twisted thoughts about absolute power forgotten, replaced by want – burning desire of – love, light, life – tenderness, trust, but yes, especially love – so absolute that she could almost drown in it – because it was what she needed, she suddenly realized, she was absolute herself, and he was too, God, they were so fucked up, both of them, in this same, crazy, fucked up absolute way, so she repeated, her voice trembling:

\- Yes – yes - I mean… What do you think we’ve been doing? I – in the – in those – air vents – together…

\- I don’t know, Carrie, he said. (It was awful to hear – the hope and fear in his voice.) What have we been doing?

Suddenly she was in his arms – she didn’t know how she crossed the gap, not that it was that big to cross – and they were holding so tight, a rampart against despair and death, a potential for – everything – and everything was what she wanted, so she whispered:

\- Yes… I mean – what we did – yes you’ve got every chance with me –

It was not crystal clear, but believe me, he got it – he grabbed her shoulders, he began to kiss her, but she drew back instantly.

\- No, Quinn, the chance of secondary infection…

\- What?

\- If you’re not infected, maybe this kiss will… and if you already are, the secondary infection will make it worse and…

He clutched her shoulders harder, just shy of hurting her.

\- Carrie, I don’t c…

\- I do – I do – I’d be thinking about it… If we kiss or fuck I’ll be obsessing about it the whole time…

\- God, he whispered, catching his breath, after she had niched her head in his shoulder. Is “contrarian” your middle name? Give me your arm, he ordered.

He unwrapped the bandage again, with a sort of tenderness that was a wonder to behold (yes, she didn’t know this man, she was discovering new facets every minute). The wound still didn’t look good, but it also didn’t look – blue. She took his hand, the one he had cut to mingle her blood with his, it didn’t look blue either, she kissed his palm, and then she kissed his wrist, again and again, (thinking about “absolutes” and what he was offering her), she felt his breath hitch and she knew it was because of the tenderness of it all – he was not used to this Carrie either – this Carrie was born with Frannie and with Jonas and he didn’t know her yet, they were in a path of mutual discovery – too bad that they were going to die soon anyway.

\- No infection, he breathed. Are you satisfied? Can I fucking touch you now?

\- For shit sake, Quinn, you know better. At least wait till morning.

Whenever morning was, if it was still morning somewhere, if the sun was still shining in some part of the world.

\- Anyway, we are touching, she added, and she settled comfortably in his arms, and he held her, and they staid unmoving, she almost dozed off, minutes passed, before he muttered:

\- I wouldn’t blame you if you’d never want to have sex again. That was embarrassing.

\- Yeah, she laughed, in his ear. It was pretty bad.

\- I’m better than this. I mean… Just so you know. It’s an important information to have.

\- It’s not your fault, I mean, it’s not our fault. We were stuck.

\- I have more… range than that.

\- You literally didn’t have any range. We couldn’t move.

They laughed a little, again.

\- I want you to know, Carrie, that I never had any complaints – the opposite – in normal circumstances, I’ve generally been more than acclaimed, I could show you letters of recommendation…

\- Oh yes. Please do. I want to read them. In fact, you should display them on your walls.

\- I’ll get right on it.

But the sex was not so bad, Carrie thought. Ok, sure, it was appallingly bad, but it was also – she couldn’t define it.

Air, when she was choking.

In the tunnel zombies were… screaming, they did that, sometimes, strangled horrible moans, like a demented song. She drew nearer – if it was even possible.

\- We’re fucked, aren’t we? I mean, even if the infection doesn’t…

\- We’ll see. (That Quinn, with the focused, determined voice, she was familiar with.) We have munitions, food - we’re far from dead yet.

\- Will you kill me, if I turn?

She could feel him rolling his eyes.

\- You’re not gonna turn. And yes, I will kill you.

\- Thank you.

\- Just trying to get in your pants, Carrie. Well, back in.

Then they slowly drifted out to sleep – except she woke up at least three times, shivering (still in his arms), dreaming that she had bit him, tearing his throat, right there and each time she screamed, thinking she was one of them, dead woman walking; he comforted her, stroking her neck and whispering in her ear, and she didn’t explain her nightmares because she thought he knew – in the dead of the night, in her semi unconscious state, she felt like they were connected, in the same dreamland, and maybe they were, because he was walking in the tunnels alone, no munitions left, no knife and Carrie appeared and she was… And he brutally woke up too and she was sleeping on his shoulder, still alive, not one of those things, but she muffled an anguished cry, so maybe she was in the tunnel too.

And then it was morning. Somewhere. They must have been on the same clock because they woke up at the same time, she was not alone, she instantly checked her wound – looked worse, but no bluish hue, she must be safe, she thought, which meant he was safe too, of course now she might die of gangrene, Quinn had not even looked at his hand, he was staring “downstairs”, at the tunnel, and he ordered:

\- Go!

\- Wait! she cried. (He turned to her.) Quinn, she breathed. Look. Look. It’s open.

He didn’t understand at first, so Carrie had to repeat:

\- It’s open. The conduct. It hasn’t been walled in.

He looked, and yes – there was no wall at the end of the air vent, just a sort of rusty metallic gate, grey daylight was sipping through, Carrie dispatched it with a few good kicks – she was nearer – then they struggled for a few seconds to get the gate out of the way (Quinn threw it in the tunnel with what could be described as a petulant gesture); Carrie began to crawl prudently into the opening, of course Quinn protested (“I should be first”), (“I’ll be fine”, Carrie answered, “I think I’m…”) – she stopped talking, she advanced, just a little, ten feet at the utmost – (“I think I’m out”), she concluded, two steps, and – she was out.

Here came the sun – a little pale, under the veil of grey – but still it was here, she heard Quinn standing up behind her, they were outside, in a huge empty field – no zombies in sight – well ok, it was not a field, they were in the middle of a huge railway network, dozens of rails crossing in an intricate network – no trains anywhere either. Far away, the place was gated with high metallic fences which didn’t look that hard to climb. Farther still, sounds of life – cars running on a highway, even children voices playing, carried in the wind – this was not the noise of a zombie apocalypse. This was the noise of civilization going on.

\- They must have evacuated the zone, then secured it, Quinn commented.

And even if there were a few zombies left with them behind those fences – they had guns, and munitions, and all the time in the world to get out. It was over, she realized – they were saved. It took a while to sink in - there was a tiny house on a little empty spot in the middle of the railways, surrounded by dead signalization lights. They walked to it, a yellow ribbon announced: “Contaminated Area Do Not Enter”, of course they did, Quinn kicked the door, they secured the place, guns in hand. Nobody was in, no zombies, they barricaded the door safely behind them, electricity was working, heat was working, hot water was working, there was food in the cupboards. Carrie began instantly to look for coffee and also started to boil water (for tea) (anything, anything hot) and somewhere Quinn declared:

\- The shower works!

\- God that’s the best news I’ve heard in my life, she answered. Take the first shift, I’m making coffee.

He stayed a long time in that shower, and when it was her turn she understood why – there was dirt and dried blood and grime everywhere. In her hair. Under her nails. All over her skin, and her feet – you don’t want to know – anyway she scrubbed and she scrubbed and then she finally felt clean – cleaner than she ever was, maybe, she got out of the tiny bathroom, wrapped up in a towel, and Quinn was waiting for her.

He was not waiting, he was waiting for her, there was a nuance. He had found clothes somewhere – men clothes, he was leaning on the fridge, clearly impatient for her to get out, but he didn’t move when she did, he just watched her (she instantly went to check the coffee machine, I mean, priorities, right?)

He was weirdly silent – but they were both exhausted. She poured coffee for both of them, put a LOT of sugar in her mug, took a few sip, finally noticed the strange vibe and looked up.

\- What?

\- Let me see your arm.

He checked it – calmly – then smiled. A guarded smile, but a smile nevertheless.

\- I think you’re fine, Carrie.

She smiled back. Then he added:

\- Also, I’m wondering what the situation is. Now that we’re out.

She stared at him for a while. Then she began to undress him slowly – taking off the new, clean clothes, his shirt, his trousers, everything; he unwrapped her towel and let it fall on the floor – now they were both naked, looking silently at each other.

Seeing each other, in the light of day. Being together.

In the light of day.

He raised his hand – caressed her face – a short, sweet gesture, then put his hands on her shoulders.

\- Let’s do this right, he said.


	2. Frozen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Ascloseasthis who edited this story!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leblanc1did a wonderful sequel to this story, called Unfrozen. It's here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/7113616

_\- Where have you been, Quinn?_

_\- Syria._

_\- Quinn, the last two years, everywhere I went, I looked for you. I tried to find you. I never stopped thinking about you._

_\- Doesn’t matter now._

It took a long time to convince Carrie that she had to leave Berlin. She wanted to know who wanted her dead, she wanted to see the drop, she kept telling Quinn that his operation was compromised – he didn’t believe a word of it – or maybe he believed her, but he didn’t really care. Nothing really registered. He just wanted to get Carrie out of there – in a fucking train, so she’d leave, so she’d be safe – but it wasn’t even an emotional reaction. There was no love or caring in it, it was an intellectual, rational thought. For some reason, Carrie had to be safe, and for her to be safe, Quinn had to take a series of actions, that’s all there was to it. And the actions were being taken, one by one. One of those actions was to convince Carrie to disappear forever, to take that fucking train and never come back, to change her name, her life, everything. 

\- Did you actually see Saul use the drop? Carrie insisted.

\- Yes. I did, Quinn answered, coldly.

\- Because Saul wouldn’t… I mean, he’s smart. Sending you to kill me is not smart…

Yes, it took a long time to convince her, but Quinn didn’t cave, so Carrie finally did – anyhow, there was no way he would have taken her to see the drop – no way in hell. Because if she was right, if the operation was compromised, then she would be in danger, and the goal was to get her on the train, safe and sound. 

On the train, and gone.

_\- How do I look?_

_\- Like somebody else._

_Carrie looked at him with a strange air. Quinn jut added:_

_\- We have to go now._

So yes, he finally won. Carrie took her suitcase with the money, the false identities, her meds, everything, and now she was in Quinn’s car, he was driving her toward the train station. He had won, but of course she wouldn’t be Carrie if she was not trying to…

\- I will get Frannie back, she muttered.

\- Of course you won’t. (Eyes on the road.)

\- I can change my life, again, Quinn. But I can’t imagine it without…

\- It’s impossible and you know it. An exit strategy is an exit strategy. You vanish. And when you vanish, you don’t bring children.

\- I’m not going to the end of the world, I’m just going to France…

\- Carrie, I don’t want to know.

\- It’s a little village, in the mountains, and…

\- FUCKING SHUT UP!

She turned to him, shocked (he was not even looking at her - eyes on the road).

\- I don’t want to fucking know, Carrie. I can be caught. I can be tortured. Don’t fucking tell me anything. In fact, this is already too much. You should change your plan.

\- I am not changing anything.

\- I know too much. You should…

\- No.

(There was a silence, and after a while Carrie added:)

\- My fucking point is – where I’m going – it’s civilized. There’s a medium town nearby, with, you know, schools and…

\- God helps me, Carrie, if you don’t shut up I will kill you myself.

She didn’t seem impressed by his threat – but she began to pout, or something – so the goal was reached, she didn’t say a word for the rest of the way. Which was good, but also dangerous, because with the silence Quinn’s thoughts began to wander – to weird, forgotten places – but those were not real, just remnants of things long forgotten, entire civilizations, frozen in the Artic.

The station was busy and loud. Carrie took her ticket, there was a train leaving in ten minutes (“You should hurry”, the woman said). Quinn was feeling – strange, he couldn’t define it, they walked towards the platforms, in nine minutes he was going to lose her forever – they were still walking, eight minutes now, it didn’t matter, he was feeling nothing, it was just a cold, intellectual fact – seven minutes – he didn’t know really know where Carrie was going, so once the train left everything would be – irretrievable – good thing he didn’t care, it was funny, really, how much he didn’t care, he was numb inside – six minutes. Carrie was walking alongside him, pale, silent, looking right ahead – was she thinking it too, that there was no way they were going to see each other ever again? What was she thinking? Five minutes. Yes, he was feeling strange – a little faint – maybe he didn’t eat enough. All these years (well two) in Syria, where he was learning detachment, and those first months, after he was gone – he was dreaming of her every night, seeing her when – good thing this was all over, because if it wasn’t, this moment now, watching Carrie disappear forever could be – but it was not – it meant nothing – he felt nothing – three minutes.

They had stopped walking. They were standing near the train, looking at each other, Quinn was searching for something to say – what do you tell someone who is going to evaporate from your life in a few seconds? He had to utter a sentence or two, he supposed, something a little warm, a little heartfelt – but there was no warmth, no heart or feeling left in him (two minutes) yes, he just had to find something to say, maybe Carrie was struggling too, she just wanted this to be over, clearly she was also searching for a quick and polite good-bye which would not feel too cold, too obligatory, why couldn’t they just turn away and leave and be done with it, and then she looked at him and said:

\- Come with me.

He was so surprised – he was so waiting for those embarrassed, dry, pathetic parting sentences, that he actually took him a few seconds to understand.

\- Sorry, what?

Carrie shrugged, but when she spoke her voice was strained, like she was struggling with intense emotions.

\- Is your life so great here, Quinn? Stuck in a hole, killing people? Come with me. Now. On the train. Or we will never see each other again.

\- What… do you mean? 

\- I mean, come with me, Quinn, she repeated, and now there were tears in her eyes. In my new life, whatever… whatever it will turn out to be… Come with me!

The train was ringing, or his ears were ringing, or – something somewhere was ringing; something somewhere was happening – Carrie had to get in but he was having – the worst headache, he didn’t really – get – 

\- No.

\- Why?

\- Because, no. Why would I come with you, Carrie?

… he said, and he knew he sounded as cold and spiteful as he looked, and he saw hope vanish in her eyes – a candle being snuffed out - if the ringing in his ears could also stop, was it still the sound announcing the departure, or…

\- I have to get in, she whispered.

\- Yeah.

So that was the end of it. She climbed in, he had seen the tears on her cheeks, she didn’t even look back, she disappeared into the car – so that was over, good, he didn’t have to find any parting words after all.

The ringing stopped. The door began to close, there was a faint whizzing sound (maybe it was the mechanism, maybe it was in his head again) and the door was still closing, and suddenly, he never knew why, he was blocking it – except he was not actually blocking it (you can’t really block these things) he was just getting in – he almost got stuck – but he didn’t, now he was inside, with nothing – no luggage no – nothing – there was an old lady struggling to get her gigantic purple suitcase into the passengers area, Carrie was nowhere in sight – certainly already farther along, looking for a seat – and the train was on the move.

Quinn stayed immobile, just standing, for a while. The old lady glared at him because he didn’t make a move to help her – but he was petrified, in another dimension, none of this was real. His thoughts were scattered, his head still hurting, when he finally made his mind to give her some assistance (if only to not attract unwanted attention) the woman was already gone, he hadn’t even seen her leaving, she had just disappeared from his reality sphere. 

The train was already going pretty fast.

Ok. First things first – let’s be practical. He was in a train to Paris. No ticket, but he looked at his wallet, he had, what, four or five hundred euros, five credit cards, he would purchase the ticket on board. He has a valid ID, a few of them, he would show a German one. Ok. So, no immediate danger – and then, without thinking, he made his way between the rows of seats, looking for Carrie, fortunately the train was not packed, he saw her almost instantly, near a window, her head upon the glass, looking so small and lost and he didn’t talk, he just sat down beside her.

\- This is not a direct train, he explained. I’m getting off at the next stop.

She looked at him, mouth slightly agape. It took a while before she answered:

\- Ok.

\- I don’t want to be here, he added. (What a weird thing to say.) I’ll just get off. Next stop. 

\- Sure, she said, frowning – staring at him. Then, why are you here? If you don’t want to be?

He didn’t answer – he couldn’t. He had no idea. He didn’t feel any emotion, just – his head was still ringing, kind of.

\- This Frannie thing is insane, he commented.

\- Oh great. You hopped into the train just to lecture me?

\- Yes.

\- Wonderful.

\- You can’t get your daughter back. You’ll be condemning her to death. And you’d get killed too – but before, you’ll see her get murdered in front of your eyes, what do you think about that?

\- You’re such a charmer, Quinn, she answered, still looking at him, studying him with that weird, inquisitive look on her face.

\- Just telling the truth.

\- Good. The truth. Telling the truth. Always good, she stammered, she clearly wasn’t thinking about what she was saying, she – if she could just stop looking at him like that – with those fucking CIA eyes – then she took his hand.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He didn’t move his hand, didn’t squeeze back, he had no idea how to act – no idea what he was feeling – really he was feeling nothing, all this – all this weird sequence of events, of actions, it made no sense. He couldn’t remove his hand though, because – the reasons were not clear – it was like, if he removed his hand, he would be in another universe, one where – she wasn’t holding her hand – God his head was hurting – but he couldn’t do anything, not even talk, and after a while, she took her hand back, with an imperceptible sigh, and just looked outside again.

They didn’t talk, didn’t touch. 

The train was going really fast.

He began to estimate time again. Forty minutes before the next station. Forty minutes, and she would be gone forever. Disappearing from his life, forever. And he would go back to… He was seeing it, his fucking existence, his happy future, the night and the parking lots and the murders, going to the box, finding another name, he thought of Carrie’s picture, her fake death, it was a beautiful picture in a way, but it would be gone when he came back, and then he would just kill the next victim and the next... His throat was tightening – why? – this was the life he had chosen, but he was wasting them, he thought, wasting those precious minutes (maybe thirty now?) thinking about his own personal circle of hell while he could focus on – on what? On her – on her being right here, not looking at him – but he was feeling her presence, he threw a glance at her – saw her profile, she had closed her eyes, she had wrinkles now, around her eyelids, he has noticed them after strangling her, when she collapsed, when he had carried her – he averted his eyes brusquely, she was sensing him looking, he was sure of it – twenty-five minutes.

He was almost choked up, didn’t know why. It was horrible, what he just did – getting on that train – why on earth did he do that to himself? What a masochistic, terrible decision… shredding everything real slowly, instead of – hacking it off – anyway she didn’t want him there – he was just bothering her – of course she had said – fifteen minutes.

Ten minutes. They announced the name of the station – Carrie looked at him quickly, so quickly their eyes didn’t even meet – and then he was back at square one, he had to say something, a good-bye, something nice and heartfelt, I mean that was the least he could do after years of… friendship, he had to say at least “Good luck, Carrie”, or something, five minutes, in five minutes, he was going to lose her forever, she was going to vanish forever.

He finally succeeded to say:

\- Don’t try to get Frannie back.

\- Sorry. I’m going to.

She was choked up like he was; there was a whole other conversation going on there, something that had no connection to Frannie at all, the train stopped.

They said the name of the town (Quinn didn’t get the name, he couldn’t concentrate), a two minutes stop.

\- Well, good-bye, he said – and then, he didn’t move.

He couldn’t. She didn’t stir either, they were not looking at each other – statues, sitting next to each other, counting the seconds – till the train would leave again - he even thought Carrie was holding her breath – that was crazy, she was not going to stop breathing for two entire minutes - anyway, he was gonna go – any second now – he was going to get up and say “Good luck, Carrie” and…

He tried to talk. “Good luck, Carrie”, that was not difficult, right? He had to look at her when he said it though – so he did look at her, she looked right back, she was – terrified – not hiding her emotions at all, just staring at him with so much fear in his eyes – fear he – fear he’d go? Fear he’d get out of the train? How did she do that? How did she feel such strong emotions, all the time, how could they show like that, her face so expressive, when he – he couldn’t even - when she had made this video for Frannie, love and sadness and fear and despair and love again, all showing on her face like – nothing showed on his face ever – well at least he hoped so – he was staring, he realized, he had been staring at her for – someone announced something on the microphone – he looked away - he had to get out.

The doors closed. 

He didn’t move. Didn’t look at her. 

The train started again.

\- I’ll get off at the next stop, he whispered.

\- Ok, she said.

The train was already going fast.

**

When they arrived in Paris nothing else had happened. Quinn hadn’t gone off the train at the next station, or the next, and then there was only Paris. When asked for his ticket, he had been his charming self – smiling – he was so sorry he couldn’t purchase the damn ticket it on time, he paid full price, with the fine, Carrie was watching him with a certain amusement. The contrast was so huge, between Quinn in his professional seduction mode and the stern, aloof guy she just shared a train ride with; Quinn felt it too, and they exchanged a smile, a real one, and then – nothing. No talk, no touching, and as we said, suddenly, they were in Paris.  
Gare de l’Est. Everyone was getting out, Quinn had no idea where she was going, where he was going – except – of course…

\- I’m going to take the next train back to Berlin, he said.

\- Good. Good. Back to Berlin. Excellent, Carrie answered, watching her surroundings. Great idea. Do you mind if we have coffee first?

She was scanning the crowd, the passengers, for possible dangers – it jolted him, for God’s sake, was he so out of it that he couldn’t even do his job? And his job was to protect her, for reasons unclear again, but now he was focusing, they walked slowly, watching people, attitudes - nothing. 

Nobody suspicious.

\- So? Carrie asked, looking at him, right into his eyes, when they arrived at the end of the platform.

\- What?

\- Coffee?

\- Sure.

Carrie got them out of the station, they walked for ten minutes, completely at random, turning into a street and the next so there was no way someone could logically guess where they had been headed, they finally chose a little café, not difficult, there were cafés literally everywhere in this town, Quinn noticed a hotel down the street – they had been walking fast, making sure that they weren’t being followed – but again, nothing suspicious. The café was not a nice one, the sidewalk with the “terrasse” was littered with cigarette butts, the chairs were old, it was too depressing so Carrie dragged Quinn inside, they sat in a little corner, somewhat better with its red seats and its fake art-déco paintings. It felt like they had at least a little privacy, and as soon as the expressos arrived Carrie went on the attack.

\- Ok, Quinn. Now, cut the crap.

\- What crap?

\- Oh come the fuck on. I asked you to follow me – in my new fucking wonderful life as a fugitive – and you said no. Fine. Except, now here you are, in Paris, with me. Why?

\- I’m going back to Berlin, he said.

\- Marvelous. But why did you hop on the train?

Quinn averted his eyes – just watched people walking in the street, on the other side of the glass panels. It was not that he wanted to play it mysterious, or unattainable, he just had sincerely, no answer for her. 

Minutes passed; Carrie was waiting. And finally, he was so tired – of everything, of himself, of the situation, of all the pretense, that he decided to cut the crap indeed, and he looked at her, for real this time, not hiding anything. He saw her pained reaction, and knew, then, that there was only despair on his face.

\- I’m… not fit for you, or for anyone, Carrie. Remember? That’s what you said… On that phone call…

She shook her head – of course she didn’t remember. That conversation had not ravaged her life like it had his. 

\- I’ve been… stuck in that existence for years, he said. Killing people. (He looked around. There was nobody, except a bored young looking waiter behind the counter, but he still lowered his voice.) In Syria, I’ve seen things that… (He rubbed his forehead.) I have trouble… listening to others. Feeling things. 

He couldn’t express it, how he felt – frozen – like there was ice on him, in him, everywhere. But how do you… explain…?

\- It seems I’m stuck in a sort of… (A silence.) I don’t know. 

\- I understand, Carrie answered after a while. I was like you, after Brody’s death. You are depressed.

\- No, it’s not…

\- Oh come on. Don’t be all “real men can’t catch depression”. I always thought you were depressed, even when we were working together, before. 

\- I don’t think so, Carrie.

\- Everything you are describing, Quinn – the feeling of disconnection, the… I see you, I look in your eyes, and I feel like you’re… gone… 

\- Gone? 

\- Yeah.

\- Gone? I don’t know. It’s not depression, he repeated, after a pause.

\- Ok.

Carrie shrugged – she looked away and it was her turn to watch people in the street. A young couple ran by, laughing, it was beginning to rain. 

\- But still, you are here, she whispered, her eyes on him again. You followed me here. You’re sitting in this café, right now, and I… I’m glad you did…

She smiled at him – it was warm, it was sad – it was real – how did she do that? Quinn couldn’t do that –he had been able to do it before, he remembered life, before, with the group, yes, even during black ops, especially during black ops, the camaraderie (hell, the friendship), the parties, those girls he picked up, then the longer relationships, the fun, the banter, the caring, Julia – and of course, Carrie – she changed everything – he was so in love with her, at the time. He was so damn fucking in love, he remembered, his heart aching, every day…

The headache was returning.

\- I don’t know why I followed you, Carrie. In fact I should…

He stopped, he didn’t know what to say, except “I have to catch the next train to Berlin” but it sounded – false. He didn’t want to do that. Not yet, anyway.

The silence seemed to go forever. 

\- You should go back to Berlin, but you aren’t, Carrie said, slowly. You shouldn’t have got on this train, but you did. You came this far, Quinn, and now... (She hesitated, looking at him with a shy look he had never seen before.) Does that mean that, unconsciously… Or you know, consciously… Do you actually… Do you want to come with me?

\- Yes.

The answer had come automatically. Again, there had been no decision, no thought involved. No emotion, in fact, still. 

There was a silence. Carrie inhaled, a deep breath – like she was actually needing air, she almost said something – but didn’t – and then he took her hands.

They stayed like this, unmoving, hands linked, staring at each other. He didn’t know what was on his face – he just saw what was on hers – sadness and hope. She was near tears, he was too. He could kiss her, right now, he thought, but if he did, she was going to feel it, feel the cold, the ice, she would freeze right away, in his arms, he would freeze her heart forever and lose her.

\- I have to get back to Berlin, he whispered. Not to… I am not backing out, he added, his voice almost breaking. But I have to get money. If we… If we, er… Together… I have to get my money. And my fake passports, and – some useful documents, I have contacts, who will be helpful to…

\- We don’t need that, Carrie said, frowning. I have money.

Not like I have, Quinn thought. And he could help her to get Frannie back. With his finances, and his kind of connections… He could give her that. He would at least give her that. 

\- We’ll need everything, he answered. Just let me look at the schedule…

He took his phone. There was a train leaving to Berlin in twenty-five minutes, if he hurried, he could make it.  
\- I can do whatever I have to do there in a few hours, he said. And I could take the evening train back. Just wait for me here. In this café - in this chair. Don’t move. Don’t go anywhere.

Carrie was staring at him. 

\- You’re… You’re lying, she stammered. You’re just saying this to placate me, but… You won’t be coming back… 

He took his hands again.

\- No. I will. Carrie, I swear I will. 

She must have read something in his eyes, because she nodded, and she began to explain:

\- All right. Listen, if we miss each other, or if I have to leave in a hurry, I’m going to Auvergne, I want to take the train to Clermont-Ferrand, and-

\- NO, Quinn said. Stop. No. (Still holding her hands.) No. If they get to me, and they torture me, or they use some kind of truth serum…

\- Quinn…

\- No. Don’t say anything.

He stood up, she did too, he could have kissed her, but he didn’t.

\- I will come back. I swear. I will come back, he repeated, his voice hoarse, and they both knew there was more than one signification to this sentence. Please wait for me, he added (again, several meanings).

His throat was so tight it almost hurt. She nodded, tears in her eyes, he walked out of there and made his way through the lunch crowd, to the station.

**

He didn’t come back.

Not on the evening, nor the day after, not the next one.

They were waiting for him at the abandoned church. Ten men, it was a trap, he sensed it a little too late. He was already inside, taking the first part of the money (the rest was split in three other hiding places) (and of course he also had five accounts in five different banks) when he realized that one of the drawers had been tampered with. And suddenly everything screamed at him – all the hints, the little differences – objects had been moved, just a little; one of his guns wasn’t exactly – then he heard, or maybe he thought he heard the slightest creak; he didn’t think, just threw himself on the ground and began to shoot – there was a strangled cry, other people began to shoot back but fortunately Quinn was already up and running toward the back door, another exit strategy he had prepared a long time ago, he almost made it, because as soon as he opened the door he saw the shadows and the guns outside – so, back inside, slamming the door, bolting it, he got behind one of the concrete pillars and here he was shooting again (at his first adversaries), the others were trying to open the door he had just closed, good luck with that, he knew what he was doing when he chose this place, and then there was nothing but hiding, shooting, hiding again, never moving from behind that pillar, that pillar was his life, his only shield from oblivion, and it lasted two days. No kidding – the massacre, the shooting – it lasted 45 hours, this little game of cat and well, cats, 45 hours during which Quinn didn’t sleep, couldn’t sit for more than a few seconds, if he closed his eyes he died – he killed four of them in the first six hours, two of them in the next five, they called for reinforcements, but something was going wrong on their end (he heard bits of conversation, something about “Ivan” who didn’t want to send more guys), and then the 45 hours passed and the reinforcements came, but only three guys. Quinn heard the car braking in the courtyard, his enemies got distracted for a second (“Hey, there they are!” “Took their fucking sweet time”) (but all that in German and in at least two other languages) and Quinn decided to make his last stand. He got out, from behind that fucking pillar, and began to shoot – what saved him, he thought after, was – God knows what. Maybe he lived because he didn’t take any precautions to save himself. He just shot to kill, to eliminate the most of them in the shortest time possible – and suddenly they were all dead, and he was totally unharmed, not even a scratch, and as outside the new guys were freaking out, they were running toward the church and shouting orders; Quinn took position behind the door and killed them too.

Then he took a bag, the money, the weapons, the bullets, and ran.

A few minutes later he was walking near the river – it was dark – he was so fucking tired – and of course, Carrie. He had missed his window. Carrie was not waiting for him anymore – Quinn had known, behind his damn pillar, he had seen the time slowly drifting by, minutes dripping, like water leaking from a loose faucet, seconds by seconds, his life with Carrie, his entire future, all his fragile and flimsy hopes just disappearing down the dirty sink, and of course, with his back on the cold concrete and the enemies shooting to kill, suddenly those hopes were not fragile and flimsy, they were very real and true and goddamn, what on earth had he done? Why on earth had he been hesitating? In the train – and later - what the fuck was he waiting for (the fog was slowly lifting), why on earth hadn’t he kissed her senseless and said yes, yes I want to run away with you - why on earth didn’t he let Carrie tell him where she was going – and now – now he had to sleep, or God help him, he was going to throw himself in the water and just let the cold take him – so tired – finally he threw the bag with all the money and the weapons an everything behind a series of huge trash-cans and checked into the cheapest hotel possible and just slept.

When Quinn woke up (and showered) (and ate) (and finished his second coffee), the situation did not seem that desperate anymore. Because maybe Carrie was still waiting – I mean, there was a chance – why on earth did he not give her a burner phone? He had been so totally out of his game, since he got on that train, he had been walking in a daze but now, he was better. He looked at the schedule, if he went really fast he could still make the 9 am train; he couldn’t help picturing it, arriving in Paris and finding her gone, his heart breaking – but he couldn’t think about that now. He just had to take a fucking train. The bag was still where he had left it, untouched, with all the money – that was a good sign, an excellent sign – just get to the station – and then Quinn realized he was being followed.

Two men, and maybe that grey car around the corner. Quinn’s heart sank, not because of the danger but because – he would lose time shaking them – he couldn’t take the risk to bring them to Carrie, yes, it would take time, time he didn’t have because now for sure, Carrie was getting ready to leave. Two days, she had been waiting – if she had been waiting – I mean, he told her he would be back that same night, maybe she had waited for the last train, saw he was not in it, yawned, bought a pack of gum and just got the hell out of dodge – but he had to hope – except now he had this tail to shake off.

It took him three days. Three fucking days. After a few hours he thought he was good but then he saw one other guy – he killed him – just strangled him in a back alley – and then he went round Berlin a few times to be sure and then he got near the station and then he saw that other car, well, long story short, it took three days, ok? He had to kill another guy and then lose the second car and when he was sure, sure, SURE (he would die before he’d be the one to bring death upon Carrie) he got in another train to Paris with his huge bag full of money and guns. 

He had no hope. I mean, it had been almost six days now. It was 8:35 AM when he got to Gare de l’Est, a grey morning, it was cold, people walking fast in their short dark coats and he just walked to the café, and of course Carrie was gone.

**

Quinn sat down – at the same seat, that seat where he had hold her hands and not kissed her. He didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know what to feel. 

He ordered an expresso. The expresso came. And then, he just waited.

Sometimes the door opened and he jolted – hoping, against all odds – and once a blond woman entered, and his heart just – but it wasn’t her – of course I wasn’t her, I mean even if he really counted for her – and he couldn’t be sure of that – Carrie had to stay alive for her daughter, so of course she couldn’t have – suddenly he stood up, and asked the guy at the bar if a blonde woman had left a message for him – there was no message, of course, it would have been crazy to leave one, if the bad guys found it Carrie would have condemned both her and Frannie, but Quinn still repeated: “Are you sure? A blonde woman – she was sitting over there” and the guy just shrugged and said no – no kidding, that things about French waiters being obnoxious. Then Quinn insisted again and the waiter was getting really fed up when another one arrived, a young one who listened to a part of the conversation and said:

\- Sure, the blonde woman, over there. She stayed for five days.

Quinn stared at him. He couldn’t talk for a moment.

\- Five days? 

\- Yes. She was waiting for someone. She kept ordering, hour after hours – slept at the hotel across the street – she left… yesterday night, actually.

Five days?

\- Did she leave a message?

But she hadn’t, Quinn insisted and insisted and the younger guy was nicer about it (but no, no message, nothing), while the older one was just looking more and more exasperated, so at the end Quinn ordered something – he didn’t want to lose his seat, that seat where he last saw her and he last didn’t kiss her. 

He put his head in his hands. She had waited for five days. He couldn’t imagine what she must have thought – the feeling of intense betrayal. She was alone in the world, in death peril, but still – five days – he couldn’t really wrap his head around it. Of course she must have thought that he had played her, that he never intended to come back. But – whatever – he had missed her, she was gone, forever now. He thought briefly of the water, in the night, very black, very cold. 

He stayed like this for a good hour.

Then he stood up and walked to the waiters, who both looked at him with surprise.

\- What is “Auvergne”? Quinn asked.

The waiters looked at each other – the young guy made him repeat twice – before answering: 

\- It’s a… a “région”? In France?

\- Yes, I know that. Are there mountains there?

\- Sure, the young guy said. C’est le Massif Central.

\- Sorry, what does that mean?

\- Yes, it’s mostly mountains. It’s a very beautiful area. You take the train to Clermont-Ferrand, and then…

That was what she had said – that was what Carrie had said, she had said she was taking the train to Clermont-Ferrand before he stopped her. (Why? Why on earth did he stop her?)

\- Is it… big?

\- Sorry, sir?

\- This area? Those mountains? Is it… a large area?

\- Well, yes, said the older waiter, with an offended air (which Quinn translated into: those Americans who think everything in France is “small” or “cute” or “quaint”.) 

\- Not really, said the younger one, at the same time.

… And then the two men looked at each other and began to argue, very fast, in French; the conversation ended with an exasperated “Oh mon Dieu” from the younger waiter. 

Quinn knew that “Oh mon Dieu” meant “Oh my God”, but he didn’t understand a word of the rest. So in theory you shouldn’t understand either, dear reader, because this story is from Quinn’s point of view but I’m going to translate the discussion anyway, because, I mean, what’s going to happen, right? Are the Higher Powers of Narrative Point of View going to send their minions to punish me?

So, loosely translated:

_The Young Waiter: Le Massif Central is not that big, I mean, the guy is American, if you compare it to the Rockies or…_

_The Old Waiter: Oh really, like, what, they have bigger mountains than we do over there? That’s what you say? That’s what you mean?_

_TYW: Well, yes… basically. That’s what I mean. Yes._

_TOW: Their mountains are bigger than ours?_

_TYW: Yes._

_TOW: Like you would know._

_TYW: I do know._

_TOW: Oh, like what? Like you travelled there?_

_TYW: Eight times._

_TOW: Well, I don’t care. I mean, who cares. Not me. I don’t care. I don’t even know where the Massif Central is anyway. I can’t help this guy._

_TYW: How can you not know where the Massif Central is? It’s in the name. “Massif” means mountains and “Central” means… well, central. It literally means “the mountains in the center”._

_TOW: Oh really? Like you’re so fucking smart?_

_TYW: How is that being smart? It’s literally what the words mean. I mean, do you remember, like, school? When you learned to, like, understand things? Or did you skip that part too?_

_TOW: You’re a moron._

_TYW: Am I too smart or am I a moron?_

_TOW: Their mountains are not bigger than ours._

_TYW: Ok. Please. Please humour me, ok? Just take your phone, open Wikipedia, and let’s compare…_

_TOW: Oh, Wikipedia? Like I would trust Wikipedia. Do you think I trust Wikipedia?_

_TYW: Sorry, what?_

_TOW: I’m sorry, smart guy, but think for a minute, will you? Who wrote Wikipedia, mmm? Ha! See? See?_

_TYW: Oh. My. God._

The younger waiter turned to Quinn:

\- It really depends what you compare those mountains to, sir. If you have a car, and you just follow the valley, you can cross them in half a day. But that’s not what’s interesting there. It’s a very touristic area with a lot of hiking trails – and the villages, and most of the towns have conserved their historical charm – I mean, my grand-mother has a house near Langeac, and…

\- Oh yeah, of course your grand-mother has a house, the other waiter grumbled. Your grand-mother has all the houses.

The younger guy ignored him.

\- It’s great, he summed up. And not that big.

\- Thank you, Quinn said. Now, if I tried to find a village there, for example…

\- What village?

\- Well, I don’t… know. Are there a lot of… villages? There?

The waiters looked at each other for a brief moment.

\- I fear so, sir, said the younger guy. A few thousands? Maybe tens of thousands?

\- Ok, said Quinn, slowly.

**

He rented a car, and drove to Clermont-Ferrand. It was much easier to take the train, but he still wanted to check if he was being followed. He was not. He took two days to make what could have been a six hours drive, making detours, trying little country roads. No. Nobody was watching. He was alone. 

Completely alone.

And… free. Absolutely free. It was a strange feeling, after all his years of chosen servitude. Quinn didn’t know it at the time, but the moment he had hopped on that train, he had quit his black-ops life, just like that. And now, while driving, he had all the time in the world to think.

Saul - whether he was implicated in this mess or not – would, one day, notice Quinn’s disappearance. The police, or someone, would find the abandoned church with all the blood (chances were, “Ivan” would have got rid of the bodies by now). Yes “Ivan” did sound Russian, but it could also be an alias – and the truth was, Quinn really didn’t care. The bad guys, whoever they were, did not have a way to find his trace, or Carrie’s.

So ok… The police, or Saul or Adal would find Quinn’s lair, they would understand that there had been a big fight and… end of the story. Maybe they would think that Quinn had been taken (or killed), but even if they suspected that he fled… there was no way in hell they could trace him to a train to France – no way. He would have just vanished into thin air. Yes, Saul would think him dead, and Adal – maybe Adal would suspect something, but he would have no way to know for sure.

So, Quinn was free.

Just like that.

He felt a strange euphoria. He stopped in a little village, got a great lunch, did a little tourism. He met people, talked about his trip plans - going to Lyon, then to Italy – leaving a trail of lies, in the eventuality that someone, some day, made it here – but he didn’t think it was possible. The next day he was in Clermont-Ferrand, it was an ugly, modern town, but it was also a door, the city which guarded the way to the narrow valley which went deep into the Massif. 

It was the gate.

He drove in. The countryside changed drastically. Suddenly mountains everywhere, big black stones (volcanic basaltic stones), (called “organs”, like the musical instrument, Quinn learned later), towers from the XIV centuries guarding every dramatic passage, every fatigued green slopes of the ancient volcanoes. Quinn had a new car, a used inconspicuous one, and he also had a plan. He settled in Issoire, a little town with a train station, and began to get the feel of the place. 

Le Massif Central was not an isolated area, but a very renowned hiking place, with tourists from all over the world – Quinn began to study maps and yes, sure, it was not that big, but see – the problem is, mountains are fractal. So if you go round them, they seem manageable. You can drive a day and be done with it, but if you actually go in – valleys inside valleys, infinite waves of stones – you should google “The coastline paradox”, they explain it much better than I do, except with seacoasts – but it’s the same thing with mountains. The surface to cover inside is almost infinite – you can drown there and never find the surface, you can go deep and disappear and no one will ever hear from you again. 

\- If you want to see it, Philippe explained to Quinn on the third day of his stay in Issoire, if you really want to see all of it, all the little roads and the villages, you’ll have to walk. Don’t sorry - it’s fine. The hiking trails, and everything – it’s very safe. Very organized.

Wait – who is Philippe, are you asking? Philippe was the right guy at the right time. A volunteer at the Syndicat d’Initiative (the place where they give info to tourists), a 50 year old history buff with whom Quinn quickly made friends. 

Quinn didn’t say he was stalking a beautiful blond ex-CIA agent, of course. He pretended he was writing a book on the daily life of local villages in the XVIIIe century, and that he was particularly interested in mountain life in remote areas. Philippe was overjoyed. They had long conversations; after ten days Quinn knew everything about the dealings of Caesar with the local tribes in 59 BC or so – but also, Philippe revealed himself to be very useful, explaining how to hike, where to go, what to avoid.

**

It was a cold and bright day, when Quinn began to walk on the little concrete road on his way to Condat – the first town on his list. 

He had perfect sport gear, brand new hiking shoes, the sun shone on his face, and he felt a surge of happiness - of true, unaltered joy. He remembered that moment for years. The trees, still in their winter nudity – it was February, also seasons come later in the mountains, Philippe had explained. “The higher you go the more spring will be late… but it will be HOT in summer – scorching, actually.” Quinn had travelled enough to know that was true, but it would be the first time – he thought about it: yes, the first time – that he would be hiking and not on a mission. Well he was on a mission, but nobody was going to shoot at him and there would be no weapons involved. It was great, walking, with nothing to worry about, just a goal – the most wonderful goal. 

The road was already climbing high. He thought about Carrie – his stomach clenched – he couldn’t help feeling a little insecure of her reaction, when he would find her, yes, she waited five days, but… Of course there was also the possibility that he would never find her, but that was not a useful thought, especially with three hours of steep road still ahead of him. After an hour, he abandoned the road and turned left, on his first official hiking trail, it was a shortcut, not forest yet, mostly meadows, covered with a yellow flower Quinn didn’t know the name of, and cows – a lot of them, with a strange red coloration, and sometimes even horses – galloping to follow him on other side of fences – anyway, a three hours hike, that was nothing, right? He was in great shape. Except, actually, he was not. He was in great physical shape after Syria (his mental state was another matter) but all those months in Berlin basically sitting in cars waiting for people to show up didn’t do him any favors, and suddenly he could not breathe, and he had to stop. 

A cow (that he later decided to mentally name Rose) was looking at him curiously while he put his backpack down and sat on a rock. He couldn’t breathe, yes, but it was not exhaustion. _It was night, he was back in Berlin, in a car, he has a new name in an envelope and now he had to…_ All the joy disappeared. _It was night, someone was screaming, people were shooting and…_ He shook his head, shaking the visions off. What was he doing here? He suddenly felt like a fraud – a black stain on a luminous land – and also, he was in danger – all those people looking for him – he had to go back, to contact Dar Adal right away – he was squirting his duty, he was bringing death here, he was death, and suddenly all the colors drastically dimmed up – the world was grey – grey the color of his car, of concrete, of blood in the night – what fantasy had he constructed, imagining he could be free, imagining – and suddenly he heard them – here, behind the trees, coming for him. He ran (Rose was looking at him with a weird concerned placidity), he took cover on higher ground, behind a stump – the problem is there is always higher ground that yours in those fucking places - he scanned the area, then ran again and finally took cover behind a grey rock, ready for anything – so he could see them coming – and it took him all day to realize there was nobody, absolutely nobody, after him.

When he finally arrived in Condat he was drenched in sweat. He registered in a hotel and didn’t speak to anybody – didn’t ask around about Americans purchasing houses in the area. He couldn’t – couldn’t see Carrie in that state, didn’t deserve her, never would.

He stayed three nights in the (nice) hotel, haunted by nightmares. Hating himself. What was he thinking? That he was suddenly, magically better, all cured, after one day of dodging bullets behind a pillar in the abandoned church? He was still in deep – in what exactly he didn’t know – and then he couldn’t stay inside, couldn’t stay cooped up anymore – so he started walking again. He followed the plan he and Philippe had made up; they had prepared his “literary search for historical villages” in a very military manner, with maps, territories to be covered. Yes, he did what he was supposed to do, but he didn’t ask about Carrie. He couldn’t. Even if he had tried, the words wouldn’t have come out of his mouth. It was so strange – he dreamed of her, in-between the nightmares, except those dreams were nightmares too, he dreamed of Carrie rejecting him, laughing at him, or worse, just looking at him with absolute indifference, like he was nobody. Well, he thought (on a little empty road with almost perfectly geometrical spherical slopes on both sides) (sometimes the eroded lava created a bizarre round countryside, a world of bubbles covered with prairie), Carrie ignoring him, those were not nightmares, just memories. How many times Carrie had looked right through him, as if he didn’t exist? 

Yes, it lasted for weeks – the horrendous dreams, the cold sweat. Demons, tearing him apart.

Then… it got better.

Just like that. Quinn has read somewhere that one of the first treatment against depression was healthy food, a lot of physical activity, the outdoors… and sun. Yes, sun. Natural light was essential in the fight against… well, darkness, apparently, how ironic (or fitting) was that? 

And sun he got plenty of. 

He woke up at 6am (he slept in hotels, it was still much too cold to be outside at night), took a hearty breakfast, chatted with tourist from all over the world who were getting ready for the hike of the day. After, he went on his merry way, walking for three to five hours – under the sun - then he ate something in the next village, then three to five hours of walking again, before looking for a place for the night. It was not difficult. Everything was… near. There was no real wilderness, no danger of getting lost. You couldn’t walk for ten minutes without finding a farm, a house, a village (or a cow). That why Auvergne was popular, he thought, you had the experience of nature, but not the danger of it. Though, of course, you could still break a leg and die of exposure – at night, in March – it was March now.

The nightmares were still coming, but he liked waking up in the morning. Forgetting about the night horrors, thinking about the day. Sometimes he still thought he was followed, or watched – but he didn’t get crazy, he just took some precautions, did some tests, it always amounted to nothing. 

The flashes-back were bad. He was walking, and suddenly he got lost, in a sort of trance – in a memory – never a good one. It generally involved killing, people dying – under his watch – his responsibility – but he was watching it, powerless, and – suddenly he would come back to his senses, his breath short. He even puked behind a tree once – again there was a cow watching him. “Hello, Rose”, he said to her, even though it could not have been Rose, except if she was a seasoned traveler too. But curiously this stupid little joke made him feel better, more connected to the here and now, to the fields, to the beasts, to the sun. Not the past.

March turned into April.

He had covered a lot of ground. He woke up in a hotel, one Thursday morning after a pretty good night (truth was, he had walked for 11 hours the previous day and had just sunk into oblivion the minute he lied on the bed) and suddenly he was asking the owner about Carrie. They were chatting pleasantly about eggs when Quinn just blurted out the question - he didn’t say “Carrie Mathison”, of course, he explained that he knew of a vague cousin from his mother side, who had just settled in the area, didn’t even know her name, but he was kind of keen to meet her, had people heard about an American woman who’d have recently purchased a house in the vicinity?

“No - I don’t know”, the guy said. But it was a start.

Then he asked everywhere. 

He didn’t find Carrie, but he met a lot of people. He was sent to a lot of English and American houses – he was invited to dinner a lot. Quinn had his “writer” personae pat now, people loved him, he even thought that if – or when – yes, _when_ he finally found Carrie, he could keep this writer thing going on – it did give a good reason for him settling in France, and he would not be the first writer to never, never ever finish his book. So yeah, he met a lot of people, had dinner, had coffee, had a beer. 

And he kept on walking.

Each time he asked – about Carrie – his heart jumped a little, with expectations, and, let’s be honest, fear. Because if someone had said, sure, I know a woman like that, and they had sent him somewhere, and it turned out to be actually Carrie, then – then what? What were the chances he’d just step into the garden, she’d turn around, see him, throw herself in his arms and kiss him passionately? The odds were pretty fucking low, that’s what they were (no, chances were, she’d freeze, frown and say: “What the fuck are you doing here, Quinn?”)… And even if she’d invited him in, well, things could turn sour in so many different ways; she could reject him in so many different ways, an even if she finally slept with him, even if they fucked – well generally at this point his imagination got a little wild, he forgot all the horrendous possibilities and just concentrated on the – the act, and his talent of visualization was excellent, believe me, God those images – they were good, great even, and certainly better than the lingering daydreams of murder and evil – “evil” was a strong word, but after those weeks walking and thinking, Quinn had decided, no – the word was not too strong. Evil was what he had committed, evil what he had witnessed, and – well, sometimes, forget Carrie, his thoughts went to his childhood – so weird. He never thought about _that_ before. About what happened, when he was eight. But now all those memories were coming back, and mixing, for some reason, with the images of dread and war, and…

It got better.

It just passed, one day. Well, it didn’t (it never really disappeared) but the frequency of the flashes-back slowly went down. 

And then it was May.

Now he was making up a lot of scenarios, with him and Carrie as the main characters. Not sexual scenarios, ok, not only sexual scenarios. He’d think about – silly stuff – like them holding hands (how stupid was that,) or cooking together, or just walking around, talking, kissing – honestly he was utterly ashamed of himself – silly fantasies, but still his mind wandered, he had a lot of time to kill on the road – hey, by the way, did we ever contradict that “thousands of villages” assertion? Please let me do so: there were not “thousands of villages”, certainly not “tens of thousands”, just a few hundred at most. (Parisian waiters don’t know anything about geography.) But that was still a lot of ground to cover, especially when most farms or houses were very isolated, part of their villages in theory, but in reality miles away, and he still wanted to check them out.

Anyway – those scenarios. About Carrie. Quinn saw their life, together, unfolding – different lives, even. With tenderness and trust, support in the hard times, understanding, love. Sometimes he stopped, in the middle of a walk, scared, and strangely forlorn - because, what he hoped for, he didn’t deserve. He was supposed to be condemned, not… saved. And those futures, those things he saw, they were too perfect, he knew there were not true, could never be – dangerous dreams, and also, even if the better happened, reality is never as wonderful as the stuff you make up, so - but generally this thought was followed by a pang of fear – because… Reality? Would reality ever came? 

And now, forget all the unattainable perfection, he would have just begged for something – anything – if he could only find her.

The weather was getting better. 

He made friends. And by friends, dear reader, we mean people he actually met more than once, on purpose. There was this nice French couple, who had opened this really, really WEIRD restaurant with a breathtaking view of waves of yellow grass and tiny little lakes. The restaurant was based on… herbs. Herbs salads and herb ice-cream and herb liquor and garlic bread except without the garlic and with butter and weird crushed flowers and herbs instead. Quinn began to eat there every week – no, he didn’t walk back all the way there each time, he took a cab, back and forth. It was weird, seeing all the countryside he took days to cross being eaten alive in minutes in the cab’s rear way mirror, but it was worth it. Having a place he’d go back regularly made him feel anchored. 

He would bring Carrie here, he thought, she’d love these people, when he… when they… you know.

There was also an old lady, who had offered him water with blackberry syrup after seeing him walking under the sun at noon. (“You’re gonna get sunstroke!” she had yelled, that day, before even saying “Bonjour”. “For heaven’s sake! Has your mother taught you nothing?”) (“No, she didn't” Quinn thought, but he accepted the drink, grateful.) There was a house full of American students who had rented the place for six months and who were always ready to drink beer “with the writer”. And others, too. 

Once, in June – it was still not that hot, I swear – he was invited to a children literature festival. He had sympathized with an American family (who were seduced, again, by the idea of the book) and they told him about the festival, it was near the cute little town of Langeac – where that young waiter’s grandmother lived, somewhere, Quinn thought with a certain amusement. The waiters, the train station, Berlin… it seemed like another life. Anyway, the children festival – it was outside, in the evening, in a communal meadow, there were plenty of different attractions in the moonlight, and in a grange a woman dressed in a very serious grey pantsuit was reading Andersen fairytales. 

The night, the fires, her voice. The children were enthralled, and when Quinn began to listen she was in the middle of “The Snow Queen”.

\- “The walls of the palace were formed of drifted snow, and the windows and doors of the cutting winds,” she was saying. “There were more than a hundred rooms in it, all as if they had been formed with snow blown together. The largest of them extended for several miles; and they were so large and empty, so icy cold and glittering! There were no amusements here, not even a little bear’s ball, when the storm might have been the music, and the bears could have danced on their hind legs, and shown their good manners. No… “

She paused, she looked at them. The children, and Quinn, were fascinated.

\- “No. Empty, vast, and cold were the halls of the Snow Queen. The flickering flame of the northern lights could be plainly seen, whether they rose high or low in the heavens, from every part of the castle. In the midst of its empty, endless hall of snow was a frozen lake, broken on its surface into a thousand forms; each piece resembled another, from being in itself perfect as a work of art, and in the center of this lake sat the Snow Queen, when she was at home. “

Yes, Quinn kept listening – to the story of the boy, enchanted by the Snow Queen, who had put a shard of ice in his heart – and the quest of his friend, who crossed countries and mountains to find him… 

And the boy was found, and the ice melt, and the tale came to an end:

\- “And then there was summer, the woman said. Summer, gorgeous summer.”

The story was over. Quinn walked around the dwindling fires, while the stars kept leisurely turning and the kids were, one by one, slowly taken home. The eternal snows of Mount Sancy (one of the two main volcanoes) were shining in the night - it was not that far, Quinn thought, looking at the peak, and it was not that high – nothing was, in this place – and suddenly he had that crazy idea that he wanted to climb there – to climb it. 

So he did. 

It took him two days, and one night, while he didn’t sleep – again, no great feat. We’re not talking about the Everest here. Just of a very old, exhausted volcano with, again, a house or a village every ten minutes, and when Quinn got to the part where the snow was still glittering, it was to find not the Snow Queen, but a very small ski station – but he kept on climbing, in his sleep deprived state everything was huge and eerie, and then the ski station was far below and he was on top (not of the world, just of this particular little corner of the universe) and he lied down in the snow, face up, eyes closed.

And the sun shone on him, while everything slowly melted.

**

And then it was July. 

One bright day, under an endless blue sky, Quinn entered a little village, not that far from Eglise-Neuve. There were like ten houses at most, separated by gardens, trees and meadows, and everything was shiny and green. A young blond woman with short hair and glasses was gardening, she looked nice and shy – the kind of person who’d give truthful information – perfect. 

Quinn walked to her, the young woman saw him, and turned bright red.

\- Hello, Quinn said, smiling.

\- H-hello, she answered.

Yeah, Quinn knew the effect he was having on women. After five months of hiking, he was lean and muscular, even more than before - with a very nice tan, thank you very much - and that eternal three-to-five-days stubble that women did not dislike either. 

Oh yes, he saw it in their eyes, but that woman there – too easy a prey. 

Quinn’s smile grew bigger.

\- I’m so sorry to disturb you… And also: Hi! I’m Peter. So happy to meet you.

\- Hi! You-you’re not disturbing me. I… My name is Céline. I mean, “Hi!”, I mean, er… Can I help you? Do you… Do you want something to drink?

She was turning even redder. Yeah, that girl had no game.

\- Sure, I’d love something to drink. And… Also, now that you mention it, Céline, yes, maybe you can help me. 

And Quinn did the speech, about the cousin from his mother side, and the house, and blah, and blah, and the young woman said:

\- Oh, you mean Carrie?

His heart stopped. Actually stopped, for a moment, everything became white, but his mind was racing – would Carrie have kept her first name? That might be a little dangerous – or maybe it was wise, cause then she wouldn’t hesitate when people spoke to her, or she would not use the “wrong” name by mistake – the woman – Céline – was still talking:

\- She bought a house here four months ago – I think. She is American, she’s in her thirties – see, this house, here? That’s hers. We took coffee this morning, but I think she’s back from the market now…

\- That house? Quinn asked, his heart pounding.

It might not be her. Don’t get excited. It might not be the right Carrie, it might be somebody else, somebody entirely different...

\- No, the old house - down the lane, down there, near the ash tree?

\- Thank you, Quinn said, and he didn’t even say good-bye, he just began to go down the lane, walking fast, there was a woman working in the garden, Quinn saw a flash of blond hair, he kept on walking…

… While behind him Céline was watching him go with more than a pinch of regret. 

\- Hey, Céline, said Mona, on the other side of the fence. 

Mona was a 75 year old Parisian, coming here, in her summer house, only for vacation (as did Céline and most of the so-called villagers in the place.) She was smoking her daily cigarette, in the company of her neighbor Claire – the three women kept their eyes on Quinn while he walked briskly down the slope.

\- Who was that very, very charming man you were talking to? Mona asked.

\- I don’t know, Céline answered. An American. He was looking for Carrie.

\- Too bad you could not keep him for yourself, Claire commented.

Céline blushed.

\- Yes.

\- Have you invited him inside for tea? asked Mona. A man like that, I would not be letting him go without a fight.

\- I... I would… I couldn’t, Céline stuttered. I mean, he asked about Carrie and…

\- Have you ever thought of lying? said Mona. “An American woman? What American woman? There’s no American woman here. Come hither, young man, come inside and taste my… tea…”

Céline was now bright red and Claire was laughing.

\- Mona, your constant amorality is a pleasure to behold.

\- I couldn’t lie, Céline protested. He asked directly…

\- Well, maybe it’s not too late, Mona commented.

\- Oh, it is too late, Claire said, and she nodded in direction of Carrie’s house. Considering.

There was a pause.

\- That’s weird, Céline commented. I thought they didn’t know each other.

\- That is not how people kiss when they don’t know each other.

\- Clearly, said Céline, with - ok, again, a little pinch of regret.

The three women watched for a few seconds – and Claire took another cigarette.

\- Yep. It’s definitely too late.

**

After the kiss, Carrie took Quinn by the hand and led him inside the house. 

It was big, with huge walls of stones, a very old wooden floor. There was a chimney, an internet modem, mismatched furniture, a laptop, a lot of books.

They stopped in the middle of the room and just stood there, holding hands, looking at each other.

\- I’m back, Quinn whispered. 

Silence, around them - everywhere - in the stones, in the woods. 

The universe, waiting, when he asked:

\- Will you take me?

**

_And then, there was summer._


	3. Colors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, so much, to LangeC and Ascloseasthis who helped me to edit this fic and did a LOT of work on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: this story inspired a song to Neverending Story, who is an incredible writer. You can find it here:
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/6467281/chapters/17072909

The world was grey. 

Postpartum depression, they said it was. Brody's absence, they said it was. The wrong balance of meds, Maggie said it was. Just fucking depression, no postpartum in it, Carrie thought it was. 

So she was working, in this huge office, with Quinn - and nobody else.

Even that was depressing. If she had been working with him in a two-person office, it would have felt more human... but they were stuck in this huge room, initially configured for thirty people, only the two of them, separated by at least three desks. And it was even worse when she thought about the reason, because the reason was the CIA bombing, the reason was, everyone that had worked in that room before was dead.

So that’s how it was. 

Grey life, grey world, grey hope. 

Or, no hope at all. 

**

Then, one day, there was a purple cupcake on her desk. 

Near her grey (black) computer. Near the grey (black) keyboard. 

A purple cupcake. _Really_ purple. A sort of bright, deep, slightly lavender-tinted purple. 

It was so weird, that burst of pigment, this true, strong, powerful flash, in this dreary haze. The cupcake itself was not a mystery, though. Carrie knew where it came from, it came from Quinn of course. The previous day, they had been on a stakeout, in the city center (turned out to be nothing) and after they had realized it was nothing, they went into a sort of coffee shop to get coffee to go, except it was not a coffee shop, it was one of those snobbish crazily overpriced cupcake shops, which also sold coffee. 

“All organic,” the woman said, showing them the cupcakes (of all colors). “No artificial coloring at all,” she explained to Quinn, who, Carrie thought, couldn't be less interested. 

“The yellow one,” she continued, “see, it's cumin, and the purple, well, obviously, blackberry, and…”

Carrie was hungry so she bought two blackberry cupcakes and offered one to Quinn. They went back to the car while Carrie was ranting (“Seven dollars for a cupcake! Seven fucking dollars! How is that even possible! Seven dollars!”) 

“Yeah, what is the world coming to?” Quinn commented dryly. “Also, it’s actually five,” he added when they were back in their seats. “You didn't account for the coffees.” 

“Whatever. Seven dollars for a fucking...”

And then Carrie took a bite, and began to laugh. “Fuck,” she said. “It's the best thing I've ever tasted.”

She took another bite, and laughed again, noticing only after that Quinn hadn't taken a bite of his, and was just staring at her. 

**

It was not that she didn't function normally, she thought, in her grey office, with the grey walls, looking at the very purple cupcake near her grey (black) computer. She worked just fine. She talked just fine. See? She had even ranted about the price of cupcakes. But everything and everyone, every interaction, was drowned in a sort of white noise - or, you know, a grey one. Quinn was here, sure, but he was not real to her - he had been, months ago, he had been exasperating and very much _here_ , but now he was just one of the grey silhouettes in the fog without end.

Except now, there was the purple cupcake on her desk. 

A pool of purple in a charcoal world. 

She looked at Quinn. He was working, at his desk, three tables - an entire universe - away. The part of her that still cared about social niceties thought she should go and thank him, (a seven dollar cupcake!) but she didn't. Not because of the fog, really, more because of an unexplained bout of shyness. 

Also, she had the strangest thought that it would spoil the magic. If she didn't thank him, she could imagine that the cupcake just appeared on the table, out of thin air, a gift from fairies, from another world. 

It was, also, totally delicious.

**

She talked to Brody that day. A flash of red hair. That power, that force, palpable even through the monitor. A ball of golden energy, a copper colored being and he was, technically, hers. Brody was very much not dead, he was on an open-ended mission in Iran, officially being an anti-American symbol there, really working for the CIA. And yes, he and Carrie were still officially together, except they hadn't seen each other in 13 months (7 months after the death of the _thing_ ) and sometimes they could talk through the CIA communication centers. But it was not enough - a few minutes, sometimes a few seconds every month or so, with operatives waiting furiously for their time, to hear Brody’s report and give him fucking instructions.

No, it was not enough. Carrie looked at Brody and felt no purpose, no momentum. She loved him of course (right?), so seeing him should have warmed her up, made her real, it should have melted the greyish cold around her, it should have been… Brody. You know, Brody. Fire. Red. Passion. But it was not, it was red all right, but the color was far away, on the other side of the ocean, far from reach and desire.

The cupcake was real. 

Purpureus. No. More, like… Dark Lavender. A bluish kind of purple. She dreamed of it that night, well not really, but there was the night and there was a dawn, far away, somewhere.

The cupcake was back on her desk the next morning. 

Of course it was not the same cupcake, of course it was a new one. But it looked exactly the same - it was from the same shop. Carrie studied the small, tender, fragile little sugar violets that decorated the top; they were exquisite in a way, art in pastry form. She took one in her fingers, crushed it – the flower crumbled into dust. 

But she did not have the heart to crush the others.

She looked at Quinn again – and there he was, working, lost in a file – he wasn’t looking at her – she watched him for a few minutes. She should really thank him. I mean, seven dollars. She should really go and thank him, but she didn’t. Again, there was this shyness, a sort of embarrassment, but also the desire not to break this fragile moment of magic.

Talking would have crumbled it. Like the flowers.

And then days passed, and now she really wanted to thank him, except it felt odd – because she hadn’t thanked him right away. It’s like, when you should have phoned someone, but you didn’t, and you know you really should but weeks have passed and now it would just be… well, odd. 

(Right?)

The cupcakes kept appearing. 

On her desk, every morning, her gift, only for her, beautiful and secret, and she didn’t say anything, and he didn’t say anything, so it was _their_ secret, in a way.

It lasted for weeks. 

They talked all the time, obviously, she and Quinn, about work and files and Javadi and – just not about this.

**

“He’s depressed,” Saul said, one day, while visiting.

That got Carrie’s attention.

“Who is?”

“Quinn.” 

Carrie followed Saul’s gaze, he was watching Quinn talking on the phone in a low voice to someone in the Pakistan Embassy. There were things going on there. In fact, Carrie was almost sent to Islamabad, after her “success” with Brody. Station Chief, they were ready to give it to her. But she had refused. After… after _it_ happened, she hadn’t had the strength to go anywhere. 

Quinn didn’t look depressed, she thought. Or did he?

She looked at Saul.

“What makes you say that?”

“Psych evals. He’s followed by doctor Batski.”

Of course, Saul would have read the confidential psych evaluations.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“I… can’t say,” Saul hesitated. “But, yes, he… Things happened.”

Saul was right, Carrie thought. Things must have happened: Quinn was not like this before. So silent, so introverted. She remembered him in those first months – he was so sure of himself (kind of a jerk), but thoughtful, too. Generous, in a way.

She thought of the cupcakes. Maybe that hadn’t changed.

Saul went away, and for the first time in months Carrie thought of something else than her own misery – ok, it was not misery exactly, she… had just retreated. She had, discreetly, severed her connections with the real world. She was functional enough, but it was pretence.

Quinn, depressed? She watched him, again. They drank coffee – he had prepared one for her – they talked about Haqqani (news from the team in Pakistan) – they talked about other ongoing situations. He seemed normal, but yeah, he was – shut down. They went back to their desks, Carrie wondering. What happened, and also – how did he see the world? Was his universe grey too? 

When she was with Brody (yes, she was still with him, but let’s say, when Brody was here with her) she was in a really bad place, and sometimes only Brody seemed real.  


Did Quinn have a “Brody”? When he closed his eyes, what did he see? What flash of burning color appeared to him at night?  
What, or who, kept Quinn sane?

She wondered, for a week. Then two weeks. Cupcakes kept appearing. 

She thought, sometimes, that there was a web, slowly being woven between herself and Quinn. It had been created recently, this web, by her musings about him, and the cupcakes. Yes, her personal interrogations, and this daily gift, it was creating something. A link. Links. Translucent ropes, glittering in the grey, insubstantial, as delicate and brittle as sugar violets.

**

One day – two months since the beginning of the cupcakes era – she brought him coffee. She had gone to Starbucks, ordered his favorite (and hers) to go, and she walked to his desk and gave it to him.

He looked at her like she had just transformed into a, who knows, a double-jawed kangaroo or something. 

“For me?” he said, surprised.

“Yeah.”

That was the moment, Carrie thought, to thank him for the cupcakes, but… she couldn’t do it. He took the coffee, after a slight hesitation.

“Thank you.”

And he looked at her, and his eyes were – so blue. A flash of blue, not blue-grey or dark blue or any of those false fucking blues, just, no, real, deep, bright, blue.  


Time passed again. 

Sometimes she bought him coffee, if only to see it – that look, from him. That color. Maybe blueberry – would he be offended by such a comparison? Or maybe amazonite? (Yes, she had checked online, looked at the official names and the numbers of colors. She found a name for the cupcake color, too.) She was right, it was “Dark Lavender” (#734F96).

But the world was still grey.

With flashes of red, sometimes. Not like Amaranth or crimson, red like red hair, like the hair of the thing. The dead thing. 

The thing had been dead for seven months now, though. Stillborn. Seven months… Wasn’t it time to… get better? Maggie had said: “You should give her a name,” “it’s not because she did not want to live that she doesn’t deserve a name,” “it would help with the grieving process.” _Such_ a Maggie thing to think. Maggie was so rational. And she had children, she loved children, of course she would think Carrie’s depression was related to… 

Brody never knew. Never knew she was pregnant, never knew…

She never would have loved the thing, anyway. Now – Carrie was not stupid, of course she knew that the thing’s death had something to do with her state. Hormonal… physical… reactions. 

But she also knew there was more to it. There was - the death of the – the baby’s death – it was a symbol. Of everything that went wrong. Of everything that never went right. Of all the things Carrie was not. A lover. A mother. A friend. A normal – human being, with – a beautiful… existence full of tenderness, even her fucking job was – maybe she was brilliant, like they all said, maybe she was _that_ good, but hadn’t she always been that good, that brilliant? For nothing?

PTSD, they also said – all those bodies on the CIA floor. Death, everywhere, all the time.

Failures, bombs, murders... babies who took one look at her and didn’t even want to live.

Carrie was good (talented) still, though. She resolved things. Little things, medium things. 

Sometimes Quinn looked at her – when she had an intuition, when she got clues – it was another shade of blue. Deeper. More like Cyan Cornflower Blue (# 188BC2.)  


Carrie noticed. She was classifying the colors, in her head.

Time passed.

**

She looked at him, sometimes. When he couldn’t see her. She watched him, wondering. If his grey was her grey. If he moved underwater. Sometimes, she thought she caught him looking – almost caught him – like he had just stared at her and quickly lowered his eyes when she… It was… pleasant, that sensation. It gave her a little warmth. It made her feel things. Things which were silvery, glittering, like the silk of the web, and yes, also fragile like a crushed, dead, elegant sugar violet.

One day when it happened, when she thought she had felt him staring, she stood up – brusquely - she thought she saw him flinch – but she didn’t talk to him, she went right for the coffee machine, slowly made coffee – for her, then for him. Then she crossed the entire empty, gloomy office, (the coffee machine was all the way back there) and walked to him with the cups in hand, he had his back to her but she felt it anyway, his waiting, the tension. 

She turned around to face him and put the coffee on his desk.

“Two sugars,” she said.

And he didn’t look at her at first. He kept his eyes downward, took the cup, the little plastic spoon and slowly stirred, but she was desperate, she needed that piercing blue, ice blue, glacier blue, she needed him to look at her, so she asked:

“So, what do you think of the Moretti thing? What did that woman say after all?”

He didn’t answer instantly either, he was still stirring, so slowly, but then he looked at her and yes, the blue was there, it was a wary blue, it was a “what is she playing at” blue, it was a desperate blue, but it was blue.

**

Two days passed.

Then the word turned black and red.

“Get down!” Quinn screamed, when they began to shoot.

Bullets were flying and screams and it was red (crimson), blood in her mouth where she had hit the pavement, when Quinn made her hit the pavement, and there was his body on hers, shielding her – then he got up and there was more shooting. Reality was not grey anymore, it was flashes of blinding light, she coughed a little red blood, life and death had hit her in the face like a blow, the universe almost shattered, almost.

In the end, he was fine, she was fine. The attackers were dead.

**

She thought she might have sensed him staring, again. She had been staring too, sometimes, she wondered if he had caught her, this man had a sixth and a seventh sense, so maybe he did feel her gaze.

And she played the game. 

The game was making coffee at the machine, and then walking back slowly, so he’d wonder. She’d see it in his back, the wondering – wondering if she would be coming, if she had a coffee for him, if she would stop to talk to him. Sometimes she did stop, sometimes she didn’t, on purpose, just to keep the game interesting. (The color of power she had on Quinn was silvery too, a metallic hue, shining like a knife – the perfect new game to distract her, except she was addicted too, the game was putting color and sound and blue in the void. She couldn’t stop.)

She didn’t wonder about the cause (of that power she had on him). The power to make his breath catch when she approached him (but then she didn’t stop) (on purpose). The power she had when she didn’t speak to him (on purpose) for two days, you know, just as an experiment. (And how she figured – nothing changed, at first sight – except he might have grown a little bit paler.) Then there was this blue in his eyes, when she spoke to him again, (on purpose) bringing him coffee, smiling, talking with studied warmth in her voice (on purpose). (Cerulean Frost, #6D9BC3, maybe.) An “I surrender” blue. An “are you having fun, Carrie? Because I’ve already laid down arms” blue.

It was a great game. But she didn’t name the truth behind the game. She didn’t want to think about it. Quinn was just lonely, she pretended to believe.

That day (while he was busy pretending not to care), she put the two coffee cups on his desk.

“Are you depressed?”

“They say I am,” he replied, after a while.

“What do you think?”

He shrugged.

“I don’t know.”

She kept looking at him. Needing to see that blue again.

“It was always there,” he finally said. “Something was always there. But yeah, it got worse.”

“How do you…” She hesitated. It was a real question. She really wanted to know. “How do you cope?”

“I…”

He hesitated, for a long time.

“I want… to help,” he said.

“People?”

“Someone.”

“Do you?” Carrie asked.

“I don’t know. I…”

“Yes?”

“It helps. Me, at least.”

**

Another stakeout. Same thing, connected to the Moretti case, and like the first time, it turned out to be nothing, and like the first time, they were near that cupcake shop, which Carrie instantly recognized.

“Hey! That coffee was really good.” And she walked resolutely toward it, sensing his reluctance. “Come on,” she said, and they entered the shop, and it was too late anyway (for him).

It was too late, because the owner saw him and instantly said:

“Hey, hi again!”

Quinn mumbled something and went purposely to study (overpriced) coffee mugs in the back, while Carrie was looking at the cakes, but it didn’t stop the woman, at all:

“You must be the girl,” she said to Carrie, in a conspiratorial voice. “You know, I always tell him, you must be so much in love, to bring her a cupcake every day like this. I know it’s on his way on the morning, but still. Do you want to try another flavor? We’re doing kiwi now.”

The only thing to do was to pretend not to hear, so Carrie answered:

“Kiwi, really?”

“It’s our special of the day. They’re really tasty.” 

“Ok, sure, I’ll try the kiwi. Quinn, do you want one?”

He nodded without looking up. He had heard, she had heard, everybody had heard.

** 

(The shop was not on Quinn’s way in the morning, by the way. Not at all, Carrie had slowly realized, while the woman was putting the kiwi cupcakes in the stupid aquamarine box. Yeah, Carrie had never really thought about it before. How he must have been be losing half an hour round trip each day, maybe more.)

(The kiwi cupcakes? Awful. Green. Cruel bright almost fluorescent green. Piercing everything.)

(The strained silence in the car after? Even worse.) 

**

The cupcakes stopped.

Instantly and totally. She watched the empty place where the purple cupcakes had appeared every morning, since… months. Since, ever. Since, a purple eternity. 

She felt nothing. Or, she felt a terrible nothingness where something had been slowly growing before.

Three horrible weeks passed.

They didn’t talk. (Again, yes, they talked, Haqqani, Javadi and whatever, they didn’t _talk_.) No more coffee games of “do I make his heart stop when I pause near his desk?” 

No more coffee either, well, ok, no more golden brown, chestnut coffee, full of things unsaid and possibilities, just fucking stupid grey empty ashen coffee.

Three weeks.

Then one evening they were talking about Haqqani and Javadi and whatever, and they were ready to leave, in fact they were both standing in that beige little vestibule near the door, Carrie said, “Ok, well, I guess we’ll see Moretti’s son tomorrow.” and he answered:

“I won’t be there tomorrow.”

“Fine, Thursday then. I’d really prefer if we did that together.”

“I… won’t be back. I mean, not before five weeks. Could be longer.”

She looked at him, stunned.

“What?”

“Going on a mission,” he said. “Five weeks.”

They were still in the vestibule. Still facing each other. A wall behind him, a wall behind her. Beige walls. (#5F5DC). Beige is a stupid, morbid color. 

“What?” she repeated, still stunned. He didn’t answer. “Did you… You weren’t gonna tell me?”

“I didn’t think it…” 

“I...,” Carrie stuttered. “Where?”

He looked at her – said nothing. 

“Is it dangerous? I mean – how dangerous?”

He shrugged.

“Fuck,” she finally said. “How am I gonna live without you?”

He almost started – their eyes met – she didn’t lower hers, she had said that on purpose, she knew it was strong, but she… she was fixing him on purpose, trying to pierce that metallic barrier between them.

“If you do want to live,” he said with a small smile, “first, obey Dar Adal when he tells you to stop. Especially when guns are pointed at you.”

“Sage advice.”

“Second, don’t go on stakeouts without me. And when guns are fired, get down.”

“I will.”

He smiled again, this time, a sad, sweet smile.

And nothing happened.

He had his back on the right wall, she had her back on the left wall. 

And they stayed like this, facing each other, completely silent.

It was… so strange. Kind of the same strangeness as not thanking him for the cupcakes. Like, the first five seconds of silence felt normal – it was his turn to talk after all – she had just said “I will.” Yes, it was his turn. Except he didn’t talk, so ten seconds passed, and then it was her turn again, maybe just to shut down the conversation, “good luck, (here she’d add something nice), I’ll see you when you get back,” except Carrie didn’t want to shut down the conversation, and it was clear he didn’t want to leave either, that he wanted to stay here, in this small hall where they were so close, only a few feet separating them, and – nobody was talking, and nobody was leaving, so yes, fucking weird. 

One minute. Two. 

But she was with Brody, right? (Right?)

She was with Brody, and she couldn’t – or could she? Was she in a real relationship, or in the shadow of one? 

Or was she just… drifting…

Quinn was watching her silently.

She let herself slide down the wall, she sat on the floor, on this perfect fucking rectangle of the perfectly severe Oxford Blue carpet. Like a dark pool. The back of her head on the beige wall. 

Quinn did the same thing, and waited.

It lasted five minutes. Both of them, on the floor. Her thoughts were… scattered. She just kept seeing – people. With red hair. Alive, or dead.

Then Quinn sighed.

“I gotta go,” he said, his voice broken. He stood up. “Shipping out early tomorrow.”

“No!” She jumped on her feet. He froze, looking – elsewhere. “No. Let me… buy you dinner. You know, feed you, before you end up God knows where.”

He just whispered:

“Ok.”

And then they were in the restaurant, and everything was golden. 

It was just around the block, and a major mood shift occurred during the walk. In the few minutes it took to make their way there, a strange feeling of joy began to seize them both – it had been a grey week, a dreary day, all those greys except suddenly this dreary evening had somehow transformed. They entered the restaurant and it was quaint and cute with its dark velvet (Persian Indigo) chairs and its maroon (Pullman Brown) tables and the copper lights, Carrie was all smiles, how long had it been since she had shared a meal with someone she cared about? Quinn was smiling, more than smiling, he was looking at Carrie with a sort of subdued happiness – they had a great table, and they talked and laughed and bantered and his eyes were so bright, and the dinner was long, they kept ordering more things (wine and dessert and coffee and decaf and tea and whatever) just to delay the end, and yes, this meal, it was an island of golden light in the ocean of grey, waves battering outside of the restaurant, shadows trying to get them, but the walls held strong.

It had to end, though.

They walked to her car – but they didn’t get inside, she proposed walking around for a while – and they did. They walked to a bar, they got one drink (he couldn’t drink a lot with the morning departure), then they walked again, talking, another bar, another walk, it was now 5 am – “I just need to get my things,” he said, “and then I’ll buy you breakfast.” So they drove to his apartment, he went inside for fifteen minutes, came back with his khaki bag, and they drove, and he did take her to breakfast, a relatively nice place a few minutes from the airstrip. 

But the mood had changed again. They were tired, Quinn was quiet, and the weather was turning against them – it was raining, the dawn was all grey, metal and concrete, like the shadows were back with a vengeance, and were gaining ground after all.

She drank her last sip of coffee. They walked to the gate. It was raining so much, you couldn’t see for ten feet – a grey fog, covering the land.

They stopped. He turned to her.

“A kiss for good luck?” he said.

She threw her arms around him – it was a short, hot kiss – lingering just a little – and then he was gone.

**

Syria was yellow and black. Real, very real, so real. The colors were screaming at him, the world was screaming, he was focused, impeccable. It lasted for five weeks, and then he was asked to stay. Open ended, Rob said – “See how you already saved my life twice this week? We really need you to stay,” and Quinn might have accepted, he would have accepted except for that last evening with Carrie. 

He was so near oblivion when they had that talk in the beige hall - and oblivion was still there, looming – even when Rob talked, he heard the screams in his head. 

So he said no.

Because of that evening. But he also thought – he was such a mess, he would not save Rob’s life this time. If he stayed, he would get them all killed. 

On the plane back, he drifted in the darkness – the night eating his brain, except for one tiny candle light – not even a candle, more like the ephemeral flame of a match – thinking – maybe she will be there. Maybe she will be waiting for me, at the airstrip, when I land. Other guys had their wives and girlfriends, he had – nobody – maybe she will be there – but he didn’t really believe it.

She was not at the airstrip. But she was in the parking lot.

He said goodbye to the last guy, and walked to her car.

“Get in,” she said.

He did – he would get his car another day, he thought, or never – he didn’t care, he was drowning, the screams were back, he was so tired – Carrie seemed to recognize it, she said, “sleep,” and she began to drive. They got to his home, he had not slept, he opened the door to the apartment and looked around as if he didn’t recognize the place, then he sat on the couch, Carrie sat beside him without a word, and at last he fell asleep.

**

He woke up fifteen hours later. 

Somehow Carrie had succeeded in getting him him down to his shirt and boxers, had made him lie down, had found a comforter (no, had gone out and bought a comforter, cause he still had nothing in the place but his sleeping bag). She was still here the next day, she had slept on his bed, she had bought breakfast. 

He smelled coffee and donuts, she walked to him, smiling.

“Hey. So, happy nightmares?”

He frowned.

“Not that I remember.”

“You woke up screaming. Three times.”

“Really?”

“God,” she said. She sat down near him, handed him coffee and a donut. “You’re a mess. I don’t mean a mess physically,” she added, eyeing him, “although, that too. I mean, you’re really fucked up. Psychologically.”

He laughed.

“Yeah.”

He drank his coffee.

“Of course, who am I to talk?” Carrie added, slowly.

“Yeah. We’re both in pretty bad shape.”

She laughed too, and he smiled. 

**

“Can I sleep over?” she asked, sometime in the afternoon.

“Sure.”

Carrie looked uncomfortable. “I… um… Brody might call.”

Quinn looked at her, astonished. That made no sense. Brody couldn’t call, that would have been much too dangerous, impossible, Carrie and Brody communicated during those highly secured sessions at Langley in an ops room with five thousand CIA goons around. Carrie knew it, Quinn knew it. 

What she meant was…

“What you mean is, you’re staying over, but we’re not gonna fuck,” he said, lightly.

“Right, exactly,” she said, smiling too, on the same tone.

“Well, I sure as hell hope you’re gonna cook then. You’ve got to earn your keep.”

She stayed for a week.

He had a few days free after his mission, and she called in sick. They spent their time doing nothing really, staying on the couch, talking smack about the stupid programs on TV (they never had the time to watch TV, so it was kind of a fun discovery), talking, laughing, she tried to cook (it was not a success) and also she did a lot of shopping, buying stuff for his apartment. Plates. Bowls. Fruits. Cushions. Wraps. Nothing white, nothing grey, nothing black, only bright colors, in every corner of his place.

He watched her with a clear amusement.

“Is your place so… decorated?” he asked. “I seem to remember bare walls and, I dunno, vodka.”

“It’s always easier to see someone else’s problems,” she explained. 

Then she sat near him on the couch again – no cute shenanigans were happening, by the way. No feet touching by mistake under the cushions, no knees brushing on each other, everything was perfectly proper and, er, distanced, except, you know, she stayed one week.

“Maggie said I should name her,” she said, one day.

(Night, couch, under the plaid comforter, lights mostly off, stupid things on TV, sound off too.)

He stared at her for a while, then got it.

“Shit. You didn’t?”

“No? Why should I? She was not… real. She didn’t have the time to be real.”

(“She,” Carrie thought. Better.)

“I… don’t know. A baby is pretty fucking real.”

Yeah, Quinn had one, Carrie remembered. He should know. (But the kid was nowhere to be seen either.)

“It’s like the core is here already, I think,” Quinn continued. “The soul.”

She thought for a minute. She should have been sad – this was a sad conversation – but she was not, or more exactly, she was always sad – like she had that pool of grey water, inside. But here, with him, she felt… 

She closed her eyes, tried to picture the baby, with “a soul”. A light.

“Maybe there is. A soul, I mean.” she whispered, after a while. “But parents can screw that up.”

“Oh yeah.”

Then there was a silence, and then Quinn told her about the kid he killed. In Caracas. He shouldn’t have mentioned Caracas, Carrie thought, he shouldn’t have mentioned anything, it was all classified, but he did mention it, for her.

They talked for a calm, dark five minutes. At the end Carrie asked:

“Do you know what his name was?”

He shrugged, but didn’t answer. Then he changed the topic, Carrie turned on the light (the darkness was choking her), she made pasta, they bantered for a while after eating it because it was really, really awful, and she even threw a fork at him (yes, other women would have thrown a cushion, she threw a fork) that he deflected effortlessly.

**

Brody called the next day.

He _called_. On Carrie’s phone. She was just out of Quinn’s bathroom after a shower when she saw the unknown number. She took the call, it was Brody, she was stunned, he explained how he got a safe number through the CIA and it was ok to call all the time now, he’d negotiated that just for her.

“I’ve missed you,” he stated. “I’m thinking about you all the time.” 

“Yeah,” she said, and she sneaked outside. “I want to break up.”

There was a silence on the other side.

“What?”

“I want to break up,” she repeated, imagining him somewhere in Iran, huge, azure sky, sun shining gold.

There were, of course, protestations from Brody – sincere protestations, yes, he really loved Carrie (in his way) and he didn’t go without a fight. So the phone call lasted a long time, Quinn began to wonder where Carrie had disappeared to, he opened the door to find her sitting on the cold ground outside the apartment, saying: “No, no. There is no one else. Of course there is no one else. I’m just… I’m tired of us, Brody.”

There was an answer on the other line, a fiery answer, and then Carrie answered in a fiery way too, and Quinn should have left her alone, he should have got back in, but he – couldn’t _not_ listen, he was transfixed, and when Carrie at last hung up (she and Brody had broken up, it was crystal clear) she turned her head and saw him standing there.

They looked at each other, then Quinn went back inside. Carrie followed him to the living room after a slight hesitation, she found him looking at… things on his desk, with a studied air of… God knows what, she hesitated again, and then said:

“I’d better go home, I guess.”

“Sure,” he said.

“I’ll see you Monday.”

“Sure.”

And that was it.

**

Two weeks passed before he dared take her hand.

It was a Thursday – they had been working late. They were side by side near his desk, looking at pictures, sent by the team in Pakistan. They had been focused, talking about the possible traitor (the station chief thought there was a mole in the Embassy). It was the first time they were physically close since the days in his apartment, it had been a strange couple of weeks, Carrie couldn’t define how she felt. When they talked, he avoided looking at her, but when he couldn’t avoid it anymore, then – let’s just say that if he had tried to hide things before – now he didn’t even... 

And that was… That blue, just for her, that presence, around her, that _regard_ – for her – this gift, no strings attached, for her, no pressure, it was…

So, that day. They played with different possible identities for the mole (Carrie had even put the Ambassador’s husband on her short list). They talked for a long time, while the sky outside was getting darker, the shadows in the office longer – they didn’t want to move – either of them, they wanted the discussion to go on forever – being side by side, so close to each other, her hands were on the desk, near one the files, and his right hand was very close. The discussion was going nowhere, it was dying down slowly, they had milked it for all they could while still having the pretext to stay. 

An awkward silence was beginning to settle. 

And he felt that he could not… That he had to try… (if it failed he would find a way to disappear) so he… moved his hand just a little, he brushed her fingers just a little, the room was so silent, she was totally still. He waited – for what seemed like an eternity. Then his fingers touched hers again, so lightly, a tentative, shy touch, she didn’t move, she didn’t run, she didn’t scream, she didn’t say “what the hell are you doing Quinn?” like in his nightmares – she was petrified, so he took her hand and then they didn’t move.  
Just – both of them very still, her hand in his.

Another eternity passed.

“Do you…” 

He knew he had to say something – but he didn’t know how to go on.

“Sure,” she said, after a while.

He stifled a laugh.

“Sure, what?”

“I don’t know. What are you asking?”

So many answers. 

“How about that restaurant again?” he finally said.

“Sure.”

They went to the restaurant, he barely let her hand go, (she was feeling warm everywhere, and especially in her stomach, it was not a color, it was just – anticipation and yes, warmth), so: he held her hand walking in the street, he held her hand while opening the door to the restaurant, while leading her to the table. Like a dance.

“You’re not going to be able to keep that up,” she commented, with this huge grin. “You’re going to have to eat. And to order.”

The waitress arrived with the menus, Quinn was wearing a huge grin too.

“What, do you think I’m not up to a challenge?” 

“What are you gonna to do when the food arrives?”

When the food arrived he managed perfectly well – he had ordered only food “in pieces,” french fries, carpaccio, he ate with his fork in his left hand, she looked at him with admiration.

“You’re good.”

“Yeah, so I’ve been told.”

She just smiled again, she couldn’t help smiling, couldn’t stop smiling.

“And what’re we going to do when we get to the car?”

“No car. We’ll walk.”

“Where?”

“Trust me.”

She ate too – well she tried, eating with only your right hand, not so easy, and she was not that hungry anyway, “I’m never letting your hand go,”he whispered, a little later, but just after that he had to let her hand go, because she had to use the bathroom – and when she came back she walked to him and for a second there she almost – she didn’t know exactly, almost kissed him, almost took him in her arms, almost knelt before him, right there in the restaurant, and put her head on his knees – he was looking at her, and it had been a while since she stopped looking for names of nuances of blue but here was a new one, right there – she sat down dutifully back in her chair and for a second they both felt shy – like all that happened was unreal – he took her hand again.

The phone rang.

They started, both of them – so startled she began to laugh – it was Quinn’s phone, he hadn’t turned it off – and hers – both of them, at the same time. She took hers, succeeded to answer without using her left hand, and then she said “yes,” “yes,” “ok,” “yes,” “yes,” “of course,” “yes,” it lasted for a long time, she was looking at him all the while, then it stopped, she put the phone down and said: “The American Embassy in Pakistan has been attacked. They’re all dead.”

You know how you hear something, or learn something, and suddenly all the lights just turn off in your head? Everything disappeared. The luminosity, the warmth, everything. 

She was moving underwater, and the water was a grey mud, again.

“What happened?” he answered, after a short silence.

She told him – but then she stopped talking – she felt choked, she couldn’t breathe (he had not let go of her hand though).

“Let’s get out of here,” he whispered.

He paid – so yes, he had to take his hand back, reality was crashing down on them, she thought, crushing them, she was under a block of concrete – couldn’t breathe — guilt and responsibility, she had to puke – now they were in the street. Night, like a fucking black swamp.

“Let’s go,” she said, suddenly.

He frowned.

“Go where?”

“Let’s just leave this fucking place. Let’s just drive south, both of us, and never come back.”

“What?” 

…but he knew what she meant, there was an emergency meeting of course, they were supposed to go right now, everybody would be in crisis mode, and it would last for weeks (months) (years) the never-ending death and constant tragedy and…

“Let’s just quit and never look back,” she murmured. “You know, run away.”

He was still looking at her.

“Let’s get out.” she breathed. “Together.” 

He nodded.

“Ok.”

** 

They had been driving for hours and the sun was rising. They were still holding hands, he kissed her palm, every ten minutes or so, but their minds were in full working mode, both of them – running from the CIA is not something to be improvised, except that’s what they were doing, improvising, so they had to be very, very smart. They had thrown their phones away, of course, first thing, and bought burners; they were in Quinn’s car, for now, but he had told Carrie he knew where to the make the car disappear and get a new one, there would be no one after them for a few days, or even for a week, because at first people at Langley would just think they were on a secret mission (for someone else, there’s always a someone else there) and then they would fear they had been killed - and only after would they realize the desertion (cause that’s what it was) and no government in the world is fond of agents deserting carrying dozens of state secrets in their head, so the hunt would be very much on. 

Also, nobody would think it was just a case of, well, love and burn-out, just being sick of it, of everything, just wanting a chance to live again, they’d believe they had defected _for_ somebody, so yes, minds were working very much in the car, evaluating dangers and finding solutions. 

In the morning, they had a solid plan, and they were exhausted.

“We have time,” he said, and he stopped in a motel parking lot. 

He stopped the engine, and – they both realized – what had _not_ happened. What hadn’t happened, yet. 

There was no hesitation, this time. He framed her face with his hands and kissed her – without thinking, without anything – and then they totally lost track of time, not even getting out of the car – yeah, the motel was right there but – just kissing, just – he couldn’t breathe, he was almost dizzy, then they were in the motel and in the room and in the bed and nobody was shy there, daylight was filtering by the windows, the room was ugly but it didn’t matter – they felt the warmth of the sun and it was unreal, all those shades of brown and dark green colors on the walls but air glittering golden in the rays and then it was around midday and it was getting very warm, hot even, they fell asleep, naked, in each other arms, sweaty with streaks of light on their bodies because of the blinds. After they went to the Chinese restaurant just across the parking lot and it was oh my God awful, the most horrible food you have ever tasted, and they had a wonderful, wonderful time, not talking about the past, and not talking about the future, just joking around and touching, at every opportunity, and then back in the motel and sleeping again (not only sleeping).

The next morning they were in the car – all ready – except Quinn didn’t start the engine.

For a while. 

“Let’s not do this,” he said.

She looked at him in horror – he was dumping her, already? That must be some kind of record. 

He saw the look, shook his head.

“I love you,” he said. “Let’s do this right. Let’s go back – quit – go through all the fucking motions. And then,” he said, not looking at her, “let’s… you know. Get an apartment… and everything…“

He paused before adding:

“Let’s not… run from our lives. Let’s build a new one together.”

“Wow,” Carrie said. “You have a way with words. I mean, sometimes.”

“I try.”

“Do you write poetry too?”

“I read some.”

“Really?”

A long pause. “Carrie, you have a father.” he finally said. “A sister. Nieces. Friends. Let’s not… destroy things anymore.”

Carrie hesitated. For a long time. Then she shook her head. “Shit. This is gonna suck.”

“Yeah..”

“The process is just… exhausting.”

“Yeah. So?”

“I don’t know...”

She hesitated again, then asked: “We disappeared for thirty-six hours. What are we gonna say?”

He shrugged. “We heard the news, we got drunk. We slept together. We got mugged, they took our phones. We got drunk again.”

“ _You_ got mugged?”

“What are they gonna do?”

Carrie shook her head. “There are going to be repercussions. And we’ll never hear the end of it.”

“We’ll hear the end of it. Because we’ll be gone.”

A pause.

“Ok,” she whispered.

“Ok?”

“Ok.”

The sun was getting higher.

But they stayed in the car some more.

“I think I’ll call her Frannie,” she said, after a while. “I mean, I would have. Because…”

Her voice faltered.

“It’s a beautiful name,” he said, and his voice caught too. “For a beautiful little girl.”

The day became blurred. 

It stayed that way for a while. He didn’t move, giving her time to recover. 

“I don’t know his name,” he added, after a good five minutes.

She knew who he was talking about, of course. She put her hand on his knee, and waited, too.

“God, I can’t believe we’re going to have to go through all those fucking psych evals – again,” she muttered finally, another five minutes, and he laughed, “we’ve gone through worse.” This time, he turned on the ignition, and began the long drive back, while she was looking around – on the move, under the blue sky, at all the colors of the city.

 

 

 

 

(The End.)


	4. But beautiful though

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an independent story, inspired by Season 6 spoilers. (Editing: and it seems it's compatible with Episode 6-01.) 
> 
> It is also very dark. I can't put tags on it because I'm adding it as a new chapter of the Variations Series, but if I could put tags, I would write "Non Con" and "A lot of bleak stuff happening". 
> 
> The story has a definite happy ending though.

It’s October, and he's high. His pupils are dilated, there's alcohol on his breath. In the basement semi-obscurity, Carrie can smell the vodka. 

“Fuck, Quinn,” she mutters. “I'm fine,” he drawls, but she clearly doesn’t understand, he repeats it, she doesn’t get it - white flashes of hate and frustration – “speech impediment,” they call it. “It could get better,” they say, “with speech therapy…” or maybe it won’t, they don't know what it’s like, to sound like a fucking animal, or a retard. She doesn't even understand him, most of the time. “I’m fine,” he repeats, angry, he knows he smells like booze, his head is spinning, this time she gets it, or not, anyway she puts her hand on her shoulder, she shouldn't touch him, not while he's in that state. “Fuck Quinn, you are not helping yourself…” she protests, she's still touching him and she really shouldn't, he knows what he looks like, he knows what she thinks of him, so he grabs her arm and backs her violently against the wall, puts his hand on her breast, “Quinn,” she says, exasperated, but he’s holding her right arm in an iron grip, he hates her so much, "Quinn you're high," Carrie growls, furious, not scared, trying to shake him off - struggling, but still not scared, even when he puts his body against her and presses his lips on hers without a word (can't say words anyway, and what he's gonna say?). She’s angry now, she tries to fight him off with rage, “Fuck!” she croaks so he forces his tongue in her mouth and she bites him, fucking bitch, she’ll see, so he keeps kissing her and hurting her and she's screaming "Quinn what the hell let me go" against his mouth and he shoves her against the wall again and she screams again and then the bell rings. 

Upstairs, in the house. In the living quarters. Where normal people dwell. 

Not here, not in the basement, where the monsters live. 

The bell. It’s so normal, so mundane, that it breaks the spell. They both stop, she stops struggling, he stops… whatever he was doing. A pause, then she pushes him away violently, “Fuck!” she shouts, and also – on her face, fury and betrayal and - “FUCK!” Carrie yells again, she hits the wall with her fist, “Stay here!”, she shouts, she climbs up the stairs, “FUCK!” she yells for the last time, she opens the front door, and…

There are three of them. Dressed in grey suits. Because of what just happened Carrie’s not at her best, she’s distracted, her arm hurts, her heart hurts, she can’t really fathom what just - so when she realizes the danger and starts to slam the door shut it’s already a second too late. One of them blocks the door with his foot. She screams (on purpose, she wants to warn him,), she runs toward the living room, where her gun is, too late, one of them tackles her on the carpet and turns her over and grabs her throat, she has a strangled laugh – “What’s so funny?” the guy asks, and she mutters “One of those days,” and one minute later she’s sitting on the couch, two guys front of her, guns in hand, the third one standing behind her, the muzzle of his weapon on the back of her head.

“We have to talk, Ms Mathison,” the leader announces. “A short conversation.”

He’s older, with grey hair. He doesn’t look like a hired hand, he looks like one of the guys in charge. He turns to the man on the left. 

“Go check the rest of the house.” Then he asks Carrie: “Is there somebody else here?” and she shakes her head. The other guy leaves anyway.

This is the time Carrie should make a joke; to show bravery, you know, hostage banter, but she’s… so tired. So not in the mood. She hurts everywhere.

“A conversation?” she repeats, finally. “Why should we have any type of conversation? I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care. You’re going to kill me anyway.”

“Sure. But there are many way to die, Ms Mathison. Come on, you know the speech. You’ve given the speech. You are ex CIA, after all.”

Carrie sighs, she does her best to look conflicted, scared. Well she is scared. But she’s also playing for time. And again, she hurts… not from the little wrestling match on the carpet. From… what happened before. 

Anyway. Time for the scared little laugh.

“This is about the President?” 

“The President to be, please,” the leader answers, politely enough. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. But – yes, indeed, it is about that… woman. We have some information to extract from you, if you can forgive the indelicacy of the word. So, first…”

“You know,” Carrie interrupts, “I don’t get it.” The leader hasn’t realized the guy he sent to check out the house is not back yet, so she is stalling, playing for time. “Her stance on international policies is not so far-fetched. Why is there so much opposition to…” And then _she_ gets interrupted, by the third man, the one behind her with the weapon on her nape, who asks, “Why is Henry taking so long?”

Shit. The leader throws a quick look around, then calls, “Henry?” 

No answer. “Is there someone else in the house?” he asks again, staring at Carrie. She hesitates a little, on purpose, before saying, “Yes, there is!” with a little too much bravado, again on purpose – she wants it to sound fake. “For God’s sake,” the asshole mutters, not knowing what to believe. “Don’t let her move a finger”, he orders, and he walks out of the living room. 

And… nothing. 

There’s no noise, nothing. 

But he doesn’t come back.

Minutes pass. The third guy is beginning to look nervous. There are two entrances to the living room, facing each other, so he can’t watch them both at once. 

“Stay fucking here,” he warns Carrie, and he walks to the other side of the room, trying to position himself better, so Carrie sizes the opportunity, leaps to her feet and runs at him head first, like a bull. She hits him in the belly, the guy falls down and there’s one shot fired (not by her) and one second later the guy’s dead on the floor, his brain spilling on the carpet and she’s in Quinn’s arms.

She falls down. On her knees. She can’t think, can’t breathe. But it’s not the attack. I mean, not that _that_ attack.

There are three bodies in the house, one of them is still bleeding, and none of it matters.

“How...” she breathes. 

“I'm still high,” he answers. 

“Then how...”

“Training. “

He sits on the floor, near her, she's trembling, he takes her in his arms, and they stay like this a long time, totally unmoving.

“That won't happen again,” he utters, well, he tries to utter. Obviously he’s not speaking about the home invasion. Except it’s incomprehensible – his voice – so he has to repeat it - the worst, the most wretched apology he has to utter in his life, and he has to repeat it. 

She shakes her head. 

“You have to leave.”

“It won't happen again,” he repeats. Well, he tries.

Carrie’s voice breaks. “Quinn, I have Frannie here. She could have been home today.”

“I would never….”

“If it was just me, I'd take the risk,” Carrie whispers, and her throat hurts, a lot, she's almost crying. “But it's not - what if you hurt her?”

“No, I...” 

“Then what if you hurt me in front of her...?”

“I would never…”

“Quinn, I can’t…”

“I’ll get clean.”

“No you won’t,” she shoots back.

Her voice is harsh. Harsher than she thought. A pause. And suddenly he's on his feet... Such a mess, his hair greasy and unkempt, the alcohol, the drugs, his hands are trembling intermittently, sometimes he's limping, he needs help, he needs all the help he can get, Carrie’s crying for real now. 

“It’s not what I meant. Of course you’ll get clean. Quinn, wait. We'll get your place back in that veteran’s home. I'll come and see you every day, I swear, we will...“

“Fuck YOU,” he says, his voice surprisingly clear, and two seconds later, he's gone.

**

Turns out, there’s a conspiracy. Against the future president of the United States, and that keeps Carrie busy for a few days. That and keeping Frannie safe, because it seems there was also another threat, this one to kidnap Frannie, to make Carrie talk… Anyway, they follow the thread to a US Senator and they dismantle the whole network. Weeks pass and the team thinks the threat is over, except Carrie doesn't think it’s over, she thinks there’s more, she almost convinces Saul, she almost convinces Elisabeth but only almost – and no, she had not forgotten Quinn, at all. 

He's always in the back of her mind. She calls him ten times that first day. When the phone stops ringing (it just goes dead, directly) she feels sick. She's the one who offered him the phone, and if he's mad at her... Of course, she's the one who should be mad at him, and she is, but she's also so fucking worried. 

Because last time Quinn disappeared… 

She won't wait nine days this time. She contacts the veterans’ home, he didn't show up. He didn't access his bank accounts either - although there is next to nothing in them, the treatments ate everything and Carrie paid for a lot of things herself. 

Virgil finds the phone two minutes after Carrie hires him, in the garbage can next to her house. 

Quinn hadn't taken two steps out before throwing out the fucking thing. 

And now, he's gone. 

With no money, no job, no home. Cannot really talk, slightly trembling hands. Alcohol and drug addiction. 

Carrie's going crazy.

**

“He's gone,” Virgil states, soon enough. “It’s been two weeks. It's getting cold. And he wants to be as far from you as possible, right? He must have taken the first bus out of New York. Stolen a car, anything, going south. He's halfway to hell already, believe me. Or to paradise. I wouldn’t worry. He’s a capable guy.”

But Carrie’s sick with worry.

**

Quinn's doing fine, though. 

New York's streets are just another jungle, and he manages perfectly well. When he wants food, he takes it. When he wants clothes, or shoes, he takes them - he chooses his targets, people who won't or can't go to the police, poor people, weak people, homeless people. Not like him. He's not homeless, he's just without a home. 

The first days, he's almost euphoric. He's free. He's been stuck in little claustrophobic rooms for so long. Hospital rooms, therapy rooms, basements. Sure, it's getting cold, but he finds solutions. He spies unoccupied apartments and he breaks in, then he spends the night, in a bed most of the time.

He's leaving New York anyway. 

Any day now. 

The most important is, he's free from her now. 

He chuckles, in his stolen bed. He certainly didn't plan it that way, he wasn't really conscious of what he was doing, but hell, that certainly did the trick – he's free now. Cause if there was ever any chance... Attempted rape, that was clever, annihilating any possibility of anything, even friendship, camaraderie, he killed any… everything in the bud, good job, he's not ironic, he's really happy. Because she was killing him back there. Being present, nice, warm. While he was... a fucking cripple... Anyway, good riddance, he's free of the cunt, free of the bitch, he tries to repeat it in his mind like a little mantra. 

He tries. 

Because then he keeps seeing her at the hospital, two or three weeks after he woke up, and she was holding his hand, and she was just looking at him, and he was just looking at her (couldn’t talk anyway). And… And then the image is stuck in his head and he can't say the mantra anymore. But who cares. 

He's free. 

Leaving New York, any day now.

**

Carrie doesn't care.  
It's been six weeks and she decided to stop caring. She can't be obsessed by him, right? She has a job, she has a daughter, she has a life. That's what she tells her psy, that's what she tells Isabelle (her secretary), that's what she tells Maggie every day. Several times a day. Several times an hour. _I don’t care._ Quinn made his choice, he assaulted her (that thought is just for her, she didn't tell anybody else), and anyway, she did not get involved in politics to help one person, she's in politics to help the many. 

The time she spends looking for Quinn, worrying for him, is time she could spend on an urgent political issue, pushing the matter, helping thousands, millions of people instead of (not even) helping him. 

Right? Makes perfect rational sense. 

The one against the many.

She doesn’t care.

**

It's getting colder. But he's leaving New York soon. Any day now. 

Money is getting scarce. 

He knew he has next to nothing legally, so he doesn't even try. No banks. He does not want Carrie to find him, he doesn't want Dar to find him, in fact he should leave town (and he will) but he had a cache with $3000 in it, it's an old one from a mission ten years ago, he spent four months here, another life. Anyway. Three thousand bucks can seem a lot of money if you don’t pay for food or shelter, but drugs… drugs are expensive. And his dealer, a veteran who lost an arm – no, don’t feel bad, the guy is a psychopath – but not a total psychopath – some sense of honor remaining - anyway, that guy got arrested two weeks ago, and the gang Quinn’s buying from now, it’s even more expensive, and of course there’s the booze. 

But it’s ok. Cause he's getting clean anyway. Any day now. 

He tries to stop a fight, near a fire, one evening – two older guys robbing a younger one. Doesn’t know why he intervenes, why he plays white knight, an old reflex, he doesn’t even think about it. It should be extremely easy, fighting off two men without any training, and it is easy, but – he feels strangely tired after. _Not the best shape of your life_ , he thinks with dark amusement, and it becomes even clearer when they ambush him a few hours later, the same two guys, with reinforcements. There are knives involved. 

Quinn wins. Not that easily. He beats the hell of out three of them, the others just run. But he has been punched in the gut – he’s dizzy, he just wanders for a while, in the night, he feels exhausted, he knows that if he gets ambushed again, there is a good chance they’re gonna get him. 

But nobody shows up. 

He goes to another part of town. Another homeless spot. Another fight breaks out. He just lets it happen.

**

Before Carrie begs Virgil to try again, she hires two private detectives, both incompetents, who charge her a fortune to tell her that probably, Quinn left town. And none of them wants to go cross country to chase a hobo. 

Virgil doesn't want it either. He says no.

**

Virgil says no, but the case is tugging at his professional heart. Not Quinn, Quinn doesn’t tug at anything, Virgil doesn't know him that well, no, it’s more pride, the frustration of being hired for a job and not being able to deliver. 

So every night, when Virgil goes home after a case, or every morning (his hours are chaotic) he checks a few streets, some places in neighborhoods where homeless people gather, where they talk. He asks around, gives money, asks for updates. He doesn't really believe in it, I mean, if he was Quinn he would have hightailed it out of town on the first day, and Virgil gets it, you know, he gets Quinn’s reaction, I mean those veterans homes are… Yep. Drifting is better. So, sure, Virgil doesn’t believe in it, but then a clue leads to another clue and sometimes there's a guy fitting the description, and it always amounts to nothing, except that this time he follows the lead and it's Quinn. 

He's walking under a bridge, talking to another homeless guy.

Virgil freezes. It’s a mistake. Because by stopping he stands out starkly, and Quinn makes him instantly. He disappears behind a pillar, Virgil runs, but he already knows he’s lost. I mean the guy has a problem with his voice, not his legs.

He tries to track him down, to no avail.

So now, Virgil has to tell Carrie.

First he thinks of lying. Telling her he seemed ok. But Carrie deserves the truth. “He was in bad shape,” Virgil explains. “Thin as a rail. Pale. Malnourishment. Drugs, still, clearly.”

Carrie listens without interrupting. 

At the end, she just nods.

**

Christmas lights are appearing all over town. It’s getting difficult to get his fix. It’s too expensive, and Quinn generally steals the drugs – once, from one of the dealers, he attacks from behind, the guy lose consciousness before realizing what happened – that stash lasts for a week, so it’s good, but the opportunity doesn’t represent itself. He’s not sure he could take one of those guys face to face now anyway, so he steals from other junkies, it’s easier, no retaliation. He even steals drugs from a dead man pocket, once. He also takes the money - one dollar and seventy cents.

And he feels like shit - something’s wrong with him. (A lot of things are wrong with him.) But again – all of this – it’s temporary. He’ll leave soon. 

He’s gonna get clean. 

The first evening he comes near her house, Carrie’s at her window, well, he sees her through her upstairs window, she’s kissing Franny goodnight. The image burns his brain and he keeps it behind his eyelids when he goes home (home is a freezing basement near a free clinic, it’s getting difficult to find empty apartments now, maybe because he doesn’t have the attention span, the focus, the stamina, to spy and wait anymore.) The image of Carrie doesn't matter though. It's not important, what burns his brain and what doesn’t, he's leaving soon. He needs closure, he tells himself. He needs a last image to put a period to this fucked up story. He goes the next day too, he almost doesn't see her this time, she's a passing shadow, but the lights of the house are enough, they... They're enough. 

So that's it. 

Done. Closure. 

So, you know, he's leaving. (Any day now.)

**

Carrie wakes up that morning and thinks about beauty. 

Yes, beauty. It's a strange concept, when she's tortured with worry, when all she does is obsess about Quinn, dying alone somewhere. But she dreamed – she’s not sure what the dream was about exactly, Quinn was in it though, and now that she’s awake she can’t shake off that idea. Greasy hair, dirty smell, damaged voice, (damaged, period,) but beautiful too, beautiful though - more than her, Carrie thinks bitterly, she’s the one with the drone-ordered murders and the egocentrism and the craziness, or maybe it's not him either… it’s what exists between them, that fragile, unnamed connection that keeps shattering and recreating itself – yes, beautiful, even with the attempted rape and the nine days and the fact that they're both killers – individually they are ugly, she judges, lying in her bed, tears in her eyes - individually, they're awful people, they deserve the worst, but that thing between them… the light she's seen in his eyes, that day in the hospital, when he realized that she was really here, that it was her…

It was, yes, beautiful.

But then all beauty vanishes, and she’s back to think she deserved it, she deserved it all. For all she’s done, for the blood on her hands. Maybe it is her punishment. Not the assault - she’s not that far gone from, you know, basic feminist philosophy, to believe she deserved to be raped - but let’s phrase it another way: maybe she deserves to be hated, to be hurt, to be rejected by the only person in the world who understood her, the only person, except her daughter, that she tried to care for, the only person that… loved her. The word “love” is so hard to say – to think – to admit. But yes, love. Strange concept under the circumstances, but that’s what we’re talking about here, right, and God, how more fucked up can this get? 

And now she's all alone. And he's God knows where, and she wonders if there really is a God, and if he really knows.

**

He's not doing well. 

It's so cold. He doesn’t have a place anymore – there are solutions, certainly, if he was in his right mind, not so tired – not so cold – he would think of something – but, the lack of food - money is long gone now. He still stinks – except it's not vodka, it's cheap wine, that he steals, most of the time. He has trouble walking, his head hurts. Oh, and, fun fact, do you know that alcohol actually impairs your body’s capacity to resist the cold? You think it warms you up, but actually, it gets the cold inside quicker. It kills you, another way.

He tries to sleep during the days (when it’s warmer) and to walk during the night, but his energy's gotten low. 

He's leaving New York, any day now. 

When he thinks about that, he chuckles. He's never leaving New York, of course. Because he’s gonna die there. Soon, if he trusts his calculations. Estimating health and chances of survival and how much time you’ve got is part of his black ops education. He has weeks, two or three, if the situation does not improve. He could improve it. There are steps he could take. Things he could do, certainly, but he doesn’t really know what, because it’s getting too difficult to think, to focus. And he doesn’t want to risk meeting… people. 

So, soon he will be dead, it's not that big a deal really. No one will miss him, and it's not like he doesn't deserve it. At night, he sees the bodies. And the other, unseen bodies – the consequences of his fucked up actions. So death – who cares – but curiously, the little things still get to him. Strange, how human nature can betray you. He walked past a mom with her little girl the other day and the child took a step back - because he looked so bad. Or smelled so bad. She made a disgusted face - she must have been around Frannie’s age. 

He walked away – feeling bad – more than bad - almost choked up, to be honest - how stupid was his reaction? Because, he thought - dumb, he knows - he thought, he ended up in this gas chamber to save people like her - families – children - and families and children now walk past him with a repulsed look - but thoughts like these don’t help – it was his choice - you know, it's Carrie's fault really. 

Because she was in the hospital. All these months, coming to see him. 

She shouldn't have. 

She shouldn’t have, because all these years, he never really thought it could happen, sure, that night after he came back from Islamabad, there was this fleeting hope – but most of the time – he wouldn’t dare to - and it was painful, but manageable - most of the time - of course, after she told him she had left for Missouri – that was bad - but then… Then. After Berlin. After the gas. She was there when he woke up, looking at him with that… smile… and she came back, day after day, and she was caring, and she was gentle, and fuck, you know? Why did she have to do that? Because… It got worse, so much worse. 

Funny how he thought when he left for Syria that it couldn't get any worse. ‘Cause of course it could. It can always get worse. 

He's going past her windows every night now. For, you know, closure. 

(And he's leaving New York. Any day now.)

(Ha.)

**

The 24th is the coldest day of December. He hurt his ankle, so he cannot walk, well, just a little. The day drags by, the sun sets, he comes near Carrie’s house anyway, as he does every night, around 9 or 10. It’s dark, nobody home. Well, good. Good that the house is empty – perfect closure, he thinks again, darkly, nobody’s home – it’s fitting - cause he realizes, as hours pass, that chances are he's not going to survive the night. 

It’s the cold. Also, he’s sick, a high fever, could be anything – but who cares, let’s say it’s the flu, it will fit the bill just fine. And there’s his general state of weakness – vitamin deficiency - he tries to remember more technical terms he learned a lifetime ago, but they slip away. 

Of course, there’s the fact that’s it’s fucking freezing, too.

Hours pass, he should walk, to keep warm, but he can’t. The ankle, and exhaustion, so he goes home, home is now a tarp under a bridge, a sort of tent he made up. He sits (if he lies down he dies). The fever is getting worse. He is shivering, trembling, but it’s all happening very far away, the fever is generating some sort of dissociation effect, it feels like the cold, everything, is happening to his real body, somewhere in the real world, but he is not really in there, his mind is drifting, he is drifting faraway, not a bad way to die, on Christmas Night, certainly the gas chamber was worse... It's not everybody who dies twice, right? Freezing to death, not heaps of fun, but again, there’s always worse. He remembers – that story, a very dark, old story, God knows when he heard it as a child – the tale of a little girl in the street, selling matches - dying of cold – yes, a fairytale, he was sure of it (he’s shivering so hard now, vaguely conscious of his surroundings, the icy plastic tarp around the icy broken metal beam, the icy concrete behind him) - do not think about that, think about – the little girl, in the tale, she was so cold, so she struck the matches she was supposed to sell, one by one, to try to warm herself up – didn’t work, the matches didn’t bring any heat, but they conjured images, wonderful images of warmth and love, mirages for the poor lost girl and at least it warmed her heart – and then they found her dead in the street in the morning – nice tale, right? Of course in the story it was all fine, because the little girl was going to heaven – he was certainly not going to heaven, so at least that was settled – as for mirages of warmth and love – the image of Carrie does pass before his eyes, but not the vision of her in the hospital, no, the new one, Carrie at her window, kissing Frannie – not looking at him - inaccessible, separated from him by glass and light – the light is golden and there is love – not for him – but for a child, so that is beautiful, and it does warm him - it’s love anyway, not for him, but it’s there – just out of reach – but beautiful to behold – so he thinks about this, Carrie, and the light, it’s like a lantern – and he’s clinging to it, focusing on it, like the world is dark and cold and this is the only fire, the tiny sparkle of the match, lost in a universe of frozen space – and suddenly he’s back in reality – dying – the plastic the metal the concrete the noises of the street, the cold, like shards in his flesh, he has to – he tries to stand up, to move, he must not stay here, he must move – it’s move or die – so he stands up and begins to walk, but it’s not enough, so he begins to jog – then he’s trembling so much the plastic tarp is trembling too because of course he never moved, never walked and never jogged, it was an hallucination, he’s still huddled up on the concrete, in his tent – the fever is making him delirious - he tries to stand up again, but he can’t, it’s like he’s petrified, and he drifts in and out of consciousness, drifts in and out of the realm of death, his crazy feverish mind says, and suddenly there’s a ray of sun and it’s morning.

Christmas morning.

And by some crazy, fucked up miracle, he’s still alive.

**

Virgil spots him a week after. At 3 in the afternoon, Quinn is hanging out in an empty, abandoned mall (it’s a construction site, nothing stays abandoned for long in this city, not real estate at this value). Virgil takes a picture – this time he wants proof – and then he tries to follow Quinn discreetly, but he’s too discreet, because he loses him soon after – the site is a fucking labyrinth and there are other homeless guys around. It’s frustrating, but Virgil thinks he got what he wanted now. Certainly Quinn sleeps over here somewhere, so Virgil goes over to Carrie, shows her the picture – they both fall silent when they enlarge it, because – well - “But at least he’s alive”, Virgil points out, and Carrie nods – there’s hope even, because if he survived this far, even in this wretched state, maybe it’s a good sign. “I’ll find him easily now,” Virgil promises, “it’s a question of hours,” and Carrie goes to work – but she doesn’t work. 

She can’t. She keeps staring at her phone, waiting for news. A part of her thinks she’s going crazy. It’s not healthy, this obsession. It’s like when she couldn’t stop thinking about Brody – except Brody didn’t try to rape her – I guess you could argue what he did was worse, but let’s not compare moral failures here – and suddenly she stands up, and she leaves everything, her work, her secretary, her computer, all the Essential Extremely Important Political Things she’s doing for the Many and she just goes, right now, to the construction site. 

When she arrives the sun has already set (traffic) and Virgil is somewhere else. Carrie texted him but he’s gone to check another lead, and now he’s in a completely different neighborhood. Night’s setting in, and it’s so cold, again – Carrie has decent boots and warm clothes but she feels cold anyway, for her and for him – because that cold, that she’s sheltered from, he’s living in it every day – the construction site is empty, maybe Virgil was right to follow the other info (someone mentioned a tarp under a bridge) but she’s here now, so she keeps searching, soon she finds herself in an immense half destroyed marble hall, there’s light (streetlight, moonlight) filtering through the numerous gaping holes, and Quinn’s there. 

He’s alone, on the other side of this huge, empty space – he sees her and instantly runs the other way. She runs too, calling him, her voice resonating between the empty walls, but he doesn’t stop, and thank God he’s in such bad, bad shape, and she has better shoes, better clothes, better everything, so she catches up to him and kind of tackles him (yes, like she was tackled by the bad guys he saved her from) and he tries to get up but she holds him and suddenly they’re both kneeling on the floor again, face to face, but he doesn’t look at her, he’s staring stubbornly at the floor, Carrie’s throat is completely dry, fighting for words; she knows she has one chance, or he will slip through her fingers and never be seen again, she’s almost crying, but fights the tears – one chance – and suddenly she’s blurting it out, everything she’s been thinking, how he’s been on her mind, 24 hours a day, the fact that she’s dreaming of him every night, he’s still not looking at her, she doesn’t even know if he’s really listening, she even tells him about beauty, he’s still not moving, “And I know we’re not worthy,” she whispers, “and… maybe we don’t have the right to be happy, we’ve done so many horrible things, you know, to others, to each other….” He’s still not meeting her eyes, and Carrie is feeling sick, but she can’t stop, she won’t stop - “but… I know it’s crazy,” she says, her voice broken, “I know I’m crazy, but I can’t help thinking that we still have a chance, you know… You and me… that we still can…” and he jerks his head back up and just stares at her, her heart stops, everything stops, his eyes are crystal clear, they’re just looking at each other now, “I know things are bad,” she breathes, “they couldn’t be worse, actually,” he’s still looking, oh God, he’s still looking, she puts her forehead on his shoulder, her voice is so low, almost inaudible, “I still think we could still… be together… that we could… love each other…” she is desperately clutching his arm. “I believe that there’s still a chance… despite…”

And then he stands up, looks at her for a while, and she thinks she sees in his eyes something that wasn’t there before… but then he turns away, and just like that, he’s gone. 

**

Six months pass. Work is a solace. In those cases it’s customary to say that nothing helps, but of course, “things” help. And people. Frannie helps. Maggie helps. Exasperation with Maggie helps. Work helps, a lot. 

Carrie’s even a big part of advancing the feminist agenda by being on a committee whose work will generate at least three laws, how ironic is that. When she has been living the most politically incorrect love story ever - and somehow, she’s even succeeded at screw that up. He’s rejected her, even when – but most importantly he’s nowhere to be found, and she has the sinking feeling that she lost him for good this time – it depends, really, sometimes she wakes up at night still thinking that maybe – anyway… 

(At least the weather is warm now.)

Anyway. The conspiracy is back.

Remember when Carrie said it was not over, to Elizabeth (who’s President now), to Saul, to Isabelle, to everybody, that the danger was not fucking over, and nobody would listen? Well things happen – little events that nobody but Carrie would notice, little hints – buzz really – but suddenly all her senses are tingling and she’s harassing the President of the United States (who else but Carrie, right?) to get more protection, to get rid of that other shady Senator and then things blow up and there is an assassination attempt but it’s thwarted – thanks to Carrie’s exaggerated measures of protection – and it’s just chaos for a while, and things are just calming down, one night, when she goes home.

They’re waiting inside, this time.

Thank God Frannie’s not here. As soon as she heard about the assassination attempt Carrie shipped her daughter off to Maggie’s – the threat of kidnapping still fresh in her mind. And there are two security guys watching Carrie’s house, day and night, to protect her, _I guess they’re dead_ , she thinks when she realizes the danger – but she’s kind of ready, an unconscious part of her mind was ready for weeks, as soon as things went south at the White House a part of her knew it could happen again, so when she sees the shadows in her living room, she grabs her gun (this time there are two guns, one hidden in the entrance, one under the hollow vase near the couch) – and she instantly begins to shoot. Dangerous, who knows, she may have hit Saul coming for a secret meeting or something, well guess what, it’s not Saul, there are five of them and they begin to shoot back at once while she makes a run for the kitchen – so they are not here to talk or to torture, they are here to kill, it’s just fucking revenge, retaliation, ok, she’s not going to make it out of here alive, but she can drag at least one or two to hell with her – and suddenly there are new shots and screams in the living room and she screams too while pulling the trigger on the guy that followed her; his brain explodes like a grey flower between the fridge and the microwave. 

The blood – it’s everywhere – on her face on her clothes on her hands – but now everything in the house is deadly silent, so she just knows, before she sees him. 

She walks slowly to the living room. Quinn’s there, with four bodies. Gun in hand. Here too, blood everywhere, on the walls, on the ceiling, on the sofa, on the table, he’s covered with it too, but he does not seem injured – neither is she. He turns to look at her – her heart is in her throat – he doesn’t look so bad. Well, ok, he looks very bad. He’s thin and pale and exhausted – but there’s no comparison to – what she saw in December – she goes right to him.

He raises a hand to stop her. His voice is very unsteady.

“I’m not clean,” he croaks. “Not yet. I… almost… 72 days without… anything,” it’s clear he still has trouble talking, his voice breaks a little, “then I relapsed, only for a day. Now I’m 43 days in… But…”

Carrie walks to him and takes his gun. She puts it down, on the table, then she takes his hand and leads him upstairs. She’s not saying anything, she can’t, he’s not saying anything, he can’t, she leads him to the bathroom, opens the shower, hot water running, she puts her hand on his cheek (there’s blood there, too) and tries to wipe it off, so tenderly… And the way he looks at her, God, (and the way she looks at him…) So then she begins to undress him, wordlessly, and he undresses her too, soon they are both naked, looking at each other, she leads them into the shower, the hot water runs on them both, blood running off onto the white tiles, she takes his hands again, and begins to stroke them to get rid of the blood there too, and there is so much love in her gestures that his heart just breaks, he begins to kiss her, without thinking, she kisses him back under the water, and when she stops he looks at her and realizes she’s crying. She tries to say something, he cannot hear, so she repeats: “Can you forgive me?” and he looks at her, completely stunned, “What?”, he manages to utter, "I need someone to forgive me," she whispers, but he still doesn’t understand - while all he wants is to get on his knees and beg her for forgiveness, but she just looks at the blood and the water and the tiles and maybe he gets it, or not, but all he can do is kiss her again and this time there is no restraint, no pretense, they are both lost, trembling, their hearts beating like crazy and suddenly he does get on his knees and so does she, for the third time since – that day - and they are holding each other still and God knows what words of love and mercy he whispers in her ear, but she’s sobbing and the water’s still running and slowly washing all the rest of the blood away.


End file.
